


The Lily of Kasagiya

by Aurum_Auri



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Victor, Bottom Yuuri, Crossdressing, Day 1: Exploration, Fingering, First Time, Found Family, Geisha Yuuri, Historical AU, Kotatsu Sex, M/M, Makeup, NSFW Victuuri Week 2017, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plot With Porn, Switching, Top Victor, Top Yuuri, Yuuri Centric, blowjob, geisha au, intercrural, minor OC character death, sexually inexperienced Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurum_Auri/pseuds/Aurum_Auri
Summary: Yuuri, following his love of beautiful things, would have gone to any lengths to become the finest geisha in the world. Then he met Victor Nikiforov.





	The Lily of Kasagiya

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d with the help of Schmesa, Linisy, Limix, and Nyerus. Thanks so much! And thanks to all the discord degenerates who listened to me complain every time this thing got another three thousand words longer. Love you guys <3 
> 
> There is a little bit of extremely minor unnamed character death. No one from the show dies. Yuuri is briefly called by a few other names before he is called Yuuri. Geisha take a new name when they become geisha, and I wanted Yuuri to be the name he uses in adulthood. In the show, Yuuri’s name is written with characters that mean courage, but sounds similar to lily, meaning mistranslations are entirely possible for those who don’t know the language that well. (cough, like Victor) Hahah. 
> 
> The Kasagiya Tea House is entirely fictional. http://www.japan-net.ne.jp/~sakai/03jquiz/07haruka/answer/files/image004.jpg should give you a basic idea of what the kotatsu tables in the Kasagiya look like. They are horigotatsu and have a coal brazier set into the bottoms or sides. 
> 
> Some apprentice geisha have their mizuage (I'll explain this in the story) as young as 15. 5000 yen in 1911 is supposedly worth about $56,000 USD today and 6000 is about $67,000. This was based off Memoirs of a Geisha, which is considered controversial and not 100% accurate. As always, with fanfic, ymmv.

 

Yutopia closed its doors forever in spring of 1899. 

Yuuichi was only five years old the day his mother and father passed on from illness. Their last breaths were shuddering, wheezing things, gasping for the last straws of life as the only doctor in the small village of Hasetsu failed to save them. 

The doctor had always been a kind man with warm, dark eyes and a gentle smile for Yuuichi whenever he visited to check in. Today, there was no smile. 

His hand was heavy on the child’s shoulder. The man was weighed down with the deaths on his conscience, the open, broken sobs of the newly orphaned boy before him. He knelt, wiping away the tears with his handkerchief. 

“It’s alright,” the doctor murmured. “Your Aunt Minako is already coming to get you.”

Yuuichi had never met his aunt before. His mother had spoken of her fondly, telling endless stories of the famous woman living a glamorous life in Gion. He himself had never left the village he had been born in. The onsen was his whole world. 

Now it was crashing down around him. He broke down and sobbed without end for three days. He was almost numb by the time a strange woman, graceful and slender but unmistakably related to his mother, pulled him into her arms and dried his tears. 

“Shhh,” she soothed. “It’s alright to cry, but we must be strong. Can you be strong for me?” 

He didn’t know her. He had never met her, but she felt like a piece of home beside him, and he cried tears he thought had dried out, breaking on fresh wounds until the numb feeling returned. 

Affairs were sorted out quickly enough. He was too young to understand most of what happened. There was a small funeral, but the competing onsens were privately glad to see another set of doors close, and though they paid their respects, there was little else they cared to do. 

When everything was said and done, Minako packed him up and led the numb, quiet little boy down the main street in Hasetsu, leaving the sleepy village behind. “Where are we going?” he sniffled, looking up at Minako. 

“Home,” she said simply. 

But home was behind them, the steaming baths and the soft murmur of customers washing up. Not wherever they were headed. 

Later, he would learn that his destination was Kyoto, specifically Gion. But he kept his head down, lost in his grief. He felt alone. 

They arrived in the city, and despite his pain, he marveled at the vision laid out before him. Gion was a far sight from his seaside village. His breath caught, and he quietly marveled. The dark wood trees were dripping with flowers, pink petals falling into the river that cut through town. The sound of the sea and the gulls was gone, but there was still the familiar rush of water hiding beneath the expansive murmur of civilization thriving around him in every direction.  

It was beautiful in a way that his sleepy village wasn't. 

The streets were scattered with cherry blossoms, crushed underfoot by the endless tide of passing people. The sheer volume of people threatened to be overwhelming. They stared at him as they passed, this chubby, grubby, tear-stained boy of five clinging to the leg of a beautiful woman. He was open mouthed with awe. 

“This is the okiya,” she said when they finally stopped in front of a building.

She led him inside. Maids scurried this way and that. He watched them move with vague fascination. Even the maids were dressed in clothes that were than anything he'd worn in his life, their simple smocks clean and well-made. 

A short woman hurried to the front, her face round like Yuuichi’s, the tip of her head barely reaching Minako’s shoulders. She smiled warmly and bundled him into a hug. “Hello, child,” she said. Her hands smelled of safflowers and ginger lilies. Her smile reminded him of the gentle doctor from the village and he started to cry. “There, there, I know it's a lot, but you can call me Mother. Everyone else here does.”

“Thank you, Hiroko,” Minako said softly. Hiroko turned her warm smile up to Minako and she smoothed her hands over his back in soothing circles. 

“It's nothing. Toshiya can take him in. I just wish I could keep the poor boy here. At his age he probably needs a mother around…” Hiroko sounded sad, petting his hair. She tilted his chin up so she could study his face. “My husband will take good care of you, alright? Come here, sweet thing,” she cooed, pulling him back into a hug. 

When the arms around him pulled away, he was left feeling cold. 

The first week, he felt lost. The city was massive, so much bigger than his tiny village. Toshiya was a man with a face as warm and gentle as his wife’s. He lived and worked in a kabuki theater he owned near the okiya, and he put Yuuichi to work right away. 

It was not particularly hard work, but the chores were more than he was used to, and it left his muscles feeling tired and achy when he finally crawled into his futon each night. He was clean, dressed more nicely than ever before, and so very, very alone. 

It wasn't that Toshiya didn't try. But unlike the village, there were no children his age. Minako was busy with her career, whatever glamorous job she had that Yuuichi didn't understand, and Hiroko wasn't allowed to let him live with her. Her own husband wasn't allowed to live in the okiya. He didn't presume to understand, when his own mother and father had shared a futon between them every night, but it was how things were done. 

And alone, he had nowhere to turn his anxious thoughts about where his life would go from here. He was always an anxious child. The stress built. He had never felt so lost in his life. 

Everything changed forever the first time he saw Minako dance. 

He had been delivering something to the okiya for Toshiya to Mother. Everyone called Hiroko ‘Mother’, especially those living in the okiya. This included Minako, though she was only a few years younger than Mother. 

The music had been what had caught his attention, but it was the dancing that held it, the devastating combination of Minako’s grace and the richly patterned kimono she was dressed in. He was spellbound, his eye pressed to a small tear in the paper screen that served as the wall of the room. 

She moved like water rippling, the motion of her arms fluid, the fan in her fingers guiding attention where it served best. Her kimono was like the night sky, fading from a deep, expansive blue to black. It shimmered with threads of lacquered silver like stars. Her face, too, was something to behold. Her skin was painted white, expressionless as a Noh mask, her lips as red as fresh blood. 

The men watching her were just as spellbound as he found himself, committing the steps to memory as best he could. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, or anything else in his life. 

In that one moment, everything changed. 

In the short time he had been in Gion, it would have been foolish to say he had missed the presence of the geisha entirely. He saw them on occasion, frequenting the theater as both performers and patrons, conversing with rich-looking men. Their distinctive makeup and luxurious kimonos were a sight to behold, and the quiet dignity they always seemed to carry themselves with was bewitching. 

But never had any of them captured his attention quite like this. 

He found his grief easier to manage with distractions. Mimicking the dances he had seen proved to be the best distraction of all. There was a kind of solace in his childish interpretations of famous kabuki plays and geisha dances he watched from the shadows. He moved his arms around himself the way he had seen the women do. He copied the flick of their wrists as they snapped their fans, the tilt of their hips. 

In a matter of months, he was obsessed. It grounded him, gave him a place to dump the overwhelming feelings. At night, he dreamed he was older, his face painted like Minako’s, his simple clothes replaced by the graceful kimono she had worn. He imagined himself dressed like the night itself. And he danced until his body ached, until he passed out in his sheets, so tired he couldn't hold his eyes open a minute longer. 

“Not half bad,” a dry voice behind him said one day, fully a year into his private practices. He jumped in surprise. 

There were few places for him to go where there was space enough to dance without being watched, but the backstage of the theater had many hiding spots within. He whirled, shocked someone had found him, even more so when he saw Minako standing there, her kimono a sunset of oranges and reds, a girl of about 13 or so standing beside her dressed in the clothes of an apprentice geisha. Her obi, the tie around her middle and flowing down her back, was far grander and more elaborate than Minako’s. They were more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen in his life. 

The girl had spoken. He looked at her in terror, then at Minako, panicking. “I- I'm sorry, it's just-”

“You're better than I was at your age,” the girl continued. Her voice was deadpan, almost disinterested, but her gaze betrayed her curiosity. “Do you train at one of the schools?”

“He doesn't,” Minako said. 

The girl looked shocked. “He?” she sputtered, grabbing his chin and tilting it this way and that. Yuuichi huffed irritably. 

“I do not look like a girl!” he pouted. 

This brought a grin to the girl’s face. “You dance like one.”

“Where did you learn to do this?” Minako asked. She was frowning, and Yuuichi was terrified he had done something wrong. 

“I- I'm sorry,” he sputtered. “I didn't- I saw you dancing, and I thought, well, I just wanted to try it myself-”

Minako pursed her lips, studying him like he was a mystery to be unraveled. 

“And?” she said, a little sharply. 

“And what?” Yuuichi whispered. 

“What did you think of it, after trying it?” she asked. 

His expression became one of joy, a smile spreading slowly over his face. “It's magical,” he breathed. 

“What are you thinking?” the girl murmured to Minako, eyeing her elder. 

Minako thumbed her jaw. Even this motion was graceful, effortless and so light that it didn't disturb the powder on her face. Something in her gaze left him uneasy. She shook her head suddenly. 

“Nothing, Mari. Nothing at all. It's too outlandish.”

The girl beside her, Mari, studied her curiously. 

“Let’s go,” Minako said at last. “We’re going to miss the party.”

Mari bowed her head. He watched them leave, their steps so small that it gave them both the appearance of gliding over the ground. He found he couldn't look away. 

* * *

There were many things he didn't know, and wouldn't learn until he was much older. 

He didn't know that Minako was the most esteemed geisha in all of Gion, which was, itself, one of the most esteemed geisha districts in all of Japan. 

He didn't know that Minako had many sisters. They were of all ages, both younger and older, but only one was actually related by blood. This woman was Yuuichi’s mother. 

He didn't know that his own mother had once been a powerful and respected geisha by her own right. 

Never as slender as the other geisha, prone to gaining weight easily and carrying it on her round face and her generous hips, she was still an attractive woman, and she had a charm to her that played well into her gift for dance and jokes. 

But the geisha life was not her true love. A poor onsen man from a small town was. A geisha’s principal job was to entertain and perform, whether it be the requests of her customers, or following the whims of her danna, her benefactor. His mother’s danna had been a wealthy man with a love for hot springs and entertaining at onsens. He brought his favorite geisha and a smattering of others along as entertainment for the evening at a party he'd been holding. But from the first moment, his mother had fallen in love with the onsen’s owner. 

They called her crazy. The other geisha told her she could never show her face around Gion again, that her debts would one day be collected, one way or another. But theirs was a love so deep that nothing else in the world mattered. She retired and ran away from the city, marrying the poor onsen man, content to live her life far from the soulless rush of geisha life. 

He didn't know that his name, or rather, the name of his mother, carried a weight around Gion that was almost as heavy as Minako’s. 

Another year passed since the day he'd been caught dancing. He didn't see Minako often, no more than once a day, if at all, though she would occasionally stop by for tea with him. In the backstage of the Kabuki theater, she would sit with her face made up and her hair flawlessly done. 

Minako would ask him if he still danced. Sometimes he felt like lying, saying he had stopped. But she didn't seem upset with him for doing it. She seemed amused. 

In open spaces between set pieces and backdrops, she would show him moves and sometimes even have him dance for her. She would encourage him to demonstrate the things he knew, the things he had seen, and she would tell him how to improve. 

“Do you actually like this?” she asked often. 

“I love it,” he always said, smiling with his gap-toothed grin. His baby teeth were falling out, and he was getting older. The dance was working off some of the puppy-fat from his cheeks, and he was growing stronger from carrying boxes and crates around. He was nearly seven now. 

Every time they met for tea, she'd tap her jaw thoughtfully. “Why do you dance?” she asked him one day. 

He blinked at her. “Because it is fun,” he said. “Because…” He paused. “I want to be as pretty as you one day.”

“Boys don't become geisha,” she said, not harshly, but as a simple statement of fact. 

“That's stupid,” he said. “I dance better than Mari. She said so.”

Minako looked surprised. “Mari visits?” 

Yuuichi nodded. “Sometimes she practices the shamisen and tells me how to move. She says I help the time pass.” Mari loved playing the shamisen. She did not love dancing, though it was just one of many skills she had been educated in. Judiciously, he chose not to mention how she often snuck a cigarette while she visited, as he was sworn to secrecy. “Mari tells me lots of things.”

“Like?” Minako asked. 

“Like stories about her school,” Yuuichi said. “And how her name changed when she became a Maiko, and how she still isn't used to being called Mari now. She plays shamisen really pretty.”

“She does, she's very good,” Minako agreed. The thoughtful look came back, as it often did. 

“I wish I could be pretty like you and Mari,” he sighed. “I don't want to work Kabuki like Dad.” 

“Kami forgive me,” Minako muttered into her hands. He watched as she reached some sort of decision in her head, massaging her temples until the makeup was ruined. “Come with me, let's go talk to Mother.”

He followed, obedient as a puppy, unsure of what was happening. Minako brought him into the okiya. Mari bowed to Minako as they entered. Even in the respectful pose, she looked graceful, her hair done up in the lovely split-peach style which novice apprentice geisha wore. 

She looked surprised to see him trailing behind Minako. Minako bid him to stay with Mari, and asked the maids where Mother was. Hiroko was upstairs. Mari and Yuuichi were left alone. 

“What are they talking about?” she whispered. 

“I don't know,” he replied. 

She reached over, running her fingers through his hair. “It's getting long,” she said. It was close to his shoulders now. Toshiya wanted him to cut it. He didn't want to. Toshiya wasn't his real dad, and no amount of kindness and understanding would make it so. 

He squinted at the floor. His eyesight was poor. “I like it long,” he said simply. 

A maid beckoned to him. Both stood, but the maid shook her head. “Not you, Mari-san.”

He followed her up the stairs. Minako and mother looked like they were arguing, traces of angry flushes remaining on their faces, barbed glares peeking out of the corner of their eyes. 

“This is madness, Minako,” mother said. “He's just a boy. He doesn't know what he wants.”

“This is the only thing he does want. And he would be good. Damned good, I'm certain of it,” Minako said. 

“It's not that he wouldn't be good,” mother said. “We can't. It's never been done!” 

Minako only grinned. “As far as we know. And if we succeed, as far as the world knows, it will still be a thing that has never been done. And I know Momori’s debts are still hanging over this okiya.”

Mother dropped to her knees. She was small enough that this wasn't necessary to put her at eye level with Yuuichi, but it wasn't the point of the gesture. She cradled his face in her palms. 

“Do you want to be a geisha?” she asked. “Do you really?”

His eyes lit up. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears like the roll of geisha drums, as musical in his ears as the songs they danced to. “Yes, more than anything.” 

“It won't be easy. In fact, it would be very, very hard work. Harder than what Toshiya makes you do,” Mother said

“I want to do this,” he breathed. “I don't care if it's hard.”

“You would have to act like a lady, you understand? No more playing in the dirt, or whatever little boys do.”

Yuuri hesitated. He thought it over, then redoubled. “I can do it. I can, I want to be pretty like Mari and Minako. I want to wear the kimono and dance and play shamisen and do all the things Mari does,” he said. 

Minako smiled. “He's dedicated, driven, clever, and competitive. If he doesn't make the finest geisha you've ever seen, I'd eat my own zori.” Zori were the lacquered wooden sandals she wore with her kimono. “If I didn't think he'd be every bit as talented as Momori was, I wouldn't come to you with this.”

“If it gets out, there is more than my okiya on the line, I hope you know that, especially if you tie his name to yours like this.”

“It's the least I can do for Momori’s son,” Minako said. He watched the conversation in confusion, not sure of what was being discussed now. They circled the subject for long minutes. “But consider this. How is it any different from onna-gata?”

He knew what this meant. Onna-gata were the male kabuki actors who played female roles. He had seen a few in his time working the backstages of the theater. They spoke in high voices and some could even mimic women with uncanny accuracy. They would rehearse backstage before shows, normal men in their off time and yet onstage they were effortlessly effeminate. He was beginning to understand. 

Mother knelt beside him once more. “You would have to do everything we say, do you understand? You can live this life if you want. But you will have to work for it, tooth and nail. You'll have to go to school every day, and you would have to behave just as we tell you to. There will be no going back.”

“I'll do it,” he said without hesitation. 

Mother looked at him for a long time, before she finally stood up and turned to Minako. “I think I believe him.”

Minako grinned. He smiled too, not sure what it meant. 

* * *

He was brought into the okiya the next day as a new maid. Mari had been shocked, to say the least, but she was quickly sworn to secrecy. No one but Minako, mother, dad, and Mari knew the truth. 

He wasn't allowed to be Yuuichi any longer. It was a boy’s name, they said, and it would be too suspicious. He became Yui, easy enough for him to remember. He was an onna-gata now, only this was for more than just a stage production. 

He complained at first at being a maid, but it was simply how things were done. Before he could become a maiko, he needed to grow older and learn important things about how he was to behave. He would do chores around the okiya to earn his keep, as all prospective geisha would. 

The work was not so different from what he was given to do at the theater, and he settled into it easily. Mari brought him with her to the school, introducing him to his new teachers as the new little girl in the okiya, Yui. 

And with that, lessons began. Everyone else was vastly better than him at nearly all subjects. In the mornings, they would play music on a variety of instruments, from the three-stringed shamisen which Mari favored to a collection of different types of drums. Then there would be singing, an important facet of performances even to girls who couldn't carry a tune. 

Dancing was the only thing he excelled at, and it was only because he had worked so long and so hard at it at home. He would run through the motions when he knew he should be practicing his shamisen, until they came to him like dreams when he closed his eyes. 

Last was always tea ceremony lessons. It was not as simple as pouring tea into cups, he soon found, and it captured his attention the way dance had. There was a complicated, subtle art to the way tea ceremonies were carried out. 

Geisha played a complex role as entertainers. They were not maids serving food to the men they performed for. They were dancers, singers, conversationalists, and pouring tea was merely a single facet of this.

Mother had many worries about him assuming his new role, and these worries often extended to Yui himself. He grew anxious, cripplingly afraid that someone would stop and realize that he was not a little girl at all, but a little boy pretending to be one. 

Mari and Minako had much to say on the matter. They taught him how a girl would act, how she would excuse herself to the bathroom, how she would behave around others her age. 

Surprisingly, the important things did not change. He could still behave as himself. The only things to change were how he spoke, referring to himself and others using more feminine pronouns in public, and the quiet things about how he moved and stood. He mimicked the girls in his classes, especially a girl that he became close friends with. 

There were days he had regrets. Days he wished he'd never started this charade. It was never easy, but it grew less difficult with the passage of time. 

It was terrifying, but it gave him a feeling like flying. He wanted to be the best. He knew he had to be as good as Minako one day. He just had to continue his charade for as long as he could, until he learned everything there was to know.

Minako told him his future was bright. The best geisha were dancers. And if he continued to work as hard as he did, he could be among the very best. He would settle for nothing less. 

* * *

During Yui’s childhood, Japan faced many great changes in its relationship to other countries. A year after his birth, Japan won its war with China. It fought with Russia over the rights to Manchuria. It formed an alliance with Britain.

In 1905, the American president Theodore Roosevelt mediated a treaty between Russia and Japan, and he earned a Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts. The treaty itself was signed in America, but the end result of this had left one of the foreign administrators of the Russian government close friends with one of the administrators for Japan. 

Both were exceedingly wealthy men, the last vestiges of aristocracy from their respective countries, and their friendship was said to be the sort of thing that transcended borders. And, as wealthy politicians and aristocracy often did in that time in Japan, the Japanese administrator brought his dear friend and the man’s son to Gion, where the geisha were. 

Yui was 13 the first time he met the Nikiforov family. 

Mari was a full geisha now, respected by many, though not nearly as well-known as Minako. As the blood daughter of the okiya owner, her future was assured regardless of how talented a geisha she was, which did not drive her to work the way Yui worked. 

Soon, he would cease to be Yui. In the six years he had worn the name, he had become adept at wearing the mannerisms he needed. It had been easy before. But now would be the hardest part, as he understood it. 

Dad had pulled him aside not long ago. Dad had a long talk with mother, before he sat down with him. “You're getting older,” dad said. “And when you get older, your body will begin to change.”

He spoke at length of terrifying things, and Yuuri had cried for hours at the thought that his cracking voice could expose him, that his changing body could surge taller than other women, that his face and body would grow hair. That he would wake up with a stiffness between his legs, and that this was somehow normal. 

They made plans. Mari was supportive in her own quiet way. While she wasn't the most tactile form of reassurance, she was quick to think of strategies for when they would be necessary. It was all an act from the beginning, but it was one that he had grown used to. 

Now everything was changing. Not only his body, but also his position in life. He was to be a maid no longer, though his lessons would still continue. With his apprenticeship, he would earn himself a new name, one based off that of his mentor: Mari. His name was already chosen to be Yuuri, and it was one he loved dearly. 

Every geisha had an older sister, not one of blood, but one of spirit. They were a guide, someone who would take their younger sister with them to important stops they made, day or night, and make the vital introductions necessary to functioning as a self-sufficient geisha in the future. 

Mari’s mentor had been Minako, who had taken on several younger geisha-to-be over the years. And now Yuuri’s mentor was to be Mari. She was a woman now, willowy and beautiful the way Minako was, and though she wasn't the most outwardly enthusiastic geisha, she was witty, ribald in the best sort of way, and she was well-liked. 

The Katsuki family had become his, over the years, but this was never as true as it was between Mari and him. They were as close as real siblings could be. In private, she would ruffle his long hair and call him her little brother, and in public, she would help him comb it out and call him her sister. 

The ceremony to bond them as ‘sisters’ would take place in a week. Yuuri would officially be an apprentice geisha, a maiko, for all which that entailed. 

Even with everything that could go wrong, Yuuri was beside himself with excitement, and he thought nothing at all of Minako and Mari preparing themselves for another night of work as they had always done. 

Mari had left one of her hairpins at the okiya, beautiful piece of lacquered wood and sprigs of silk safflowers, so Yuuri was sent to deliver it to her at the tea house which they were entertaining at, a place called Kasagiya. He apologized profusely at the door, expecting a maid to take it from him and deliver it to Mari, but instead, he was led inside. 

The poor girl was beside herself with nerves, afraid to enter the room. She said there was a great big wolf of a foreigner inside, both he and his son with great manes of snow-white hair and eyes that were pale and cold and blue. She was terribly superstitious, but of what, Yuuri couldn't say. He would take the pin in himself. 

Kasagiya was beautiful, Yuuri thought as he walked through it. It was one of the larger tea houses in Gion, and definitely the nicest one in town as well. It was where wealthy men often came, and Yuuri felt a bit nervous to step inside looking so plain. But he had a job to do. He would never be the most beautiful geisha if he couldn't walk through a tea house.

Mari was pleased to have her pin back, after Yuuri bowed and apologized for interrupting their conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he studied the men they were entertaining. There were three other geisha in the room and six men in total. 

Immediately, he could see what had made the maid nervous: a large, imposing man with a thick white beard and a large mass of combed white hair, dressed in a western business suit. He looked young and wolfish. At his side, looking distinctly uncomfortable, was a willowy teenager with hair of a similar shade to the man. It was as long as Yuuri’s, spilling gracefully over his shoulders in a fall like starlight. 

The teenager murmured something to the man beside him, and the man let out a loud, drunken laugh. In roughly accented Japanese, he bellowed, “my son needs the toilet. Perhaps one of you lovely ladies can escort him?”

It was the duty of apprentices to escort men to the toilet. If no apprentice was to be found, they would often walk alone, or in the company of a geisha. The geisha here all seemed to pretend they hadn’t heard, so deep in their conversations that they had somehow missed the noisy foreign man with his thick Japanese. 

Mari locked eyes with Yuuri, smiling prettily. She didn't want to stand up. She was feeling lazy. He stifled the urge to glare, immediately knowing exactly what she was about to do. 

“Nikiforov-san, my lovely little sister Yuuri is soon to become an apprentice under me. Perhaps it would be good for her to get some practice in before she begins?”

Minako glared at her for Yuuri. “Now, now, that would be entirely improper. She hasn't even been officially made your novice yet.”

The large man bellowed out another laugh. “Nonsense, let the girl get practice. My Victor doesn't know enough about geisha to care either way.” He clapped his son on the shoulder with a toothy grin and jabbered something in another language. 

The boy, Victor, flicked his gaze to where Yuuri stood and nodded, replying something in the same language. He stood. 

Minako shook her head. “I suppose it's alright. Just lead him there and back. Then head home, alright, Yuuri?”

He bowed his head. “Yes, Minako-san,” he said respectfully. Victor followed him out of the room, glancing uneasily this way and that down the halls. He was lost. Yuuri beckoned him toward the toilet. There was only one logical direction for it. “This way. Nikiforov-san, was it?” he said gently. 

Victor squinted at him. The maid hadn't been kidding when she'd mentioned his eyes. They were the clearest, loveliest shade of blue he'd ever seen. In the light of the corridor, his hair seemed to gleam, moonbright and transfixing. 

“Yes,” Victor said, although it twisted with the sound of a question, unsure about the language. It startled Yuuri out of his staring. “What… is your… name?” The accent was thicker even than his father’s, the words halting and hesitant, to the point where it took Yuuri a minute to figure out what was being said. 

“Yuuri,” he said, as soon as he realized. Victor nodded at him, a note of surprise on his face. 

He started to guide Victor down the hall, trying to keep from being distracted by the strange appearance of the Russian guest. They were quiet as they walked, until they had arrived at the toilet. Victor stepped inside and finished his business. 

Yuuri began to walk back, but Victor lingered near a display case of antiques. His fingers traced over the glass, his eyes catching on the scrolls in wonder. His fingernails were perfectly clipped crescents, well groomed and neat. His hair was like strands of combed silk. There was unmistakable wealth in his appearance and the way he stood. 

Yuuri took the chance to study him closer. He didn't often get the chance to see foreigners, especially not ones that looked as wealthy as the ones accompanying the important politician that Minako and Mari were entertaining. There was something strange in the shape of his jaw, his eyes, something that made him look exotic and different. 

Yuuri had only ever seen extremely old men have hair as pale as this boy’s, but he was unmistakably young, perhaps as young as 16 or 17. Older than Yuuri, but much younger than the other people Yuuri often saw with geisha, and still a few years younger than Mari. 

Yuuri was fascinated. 

Everything about Victor made Yuuri’s heart race a little faster in a way he couldn't explain. He didn't realize that Victor was looking at him until he saw a smile split Victor’s face, amused by the shameless staring. Yuuri flushed and looked away. 

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly, hiding behind his hair. Victor laughed softly. 

He bowed low as he returned Victor to the room and excused himself, hurrying back to the okiya with a pounding in his chest. 

One more thing had been explained to him, that day Dad had told him what would happen when he grew up. In addition to the hair, the voice, and the other changes to various body parts, he would find himself thinking strange things about girls. 

That hadn't started yet. But he found himself feeling more than a little nervous around Victor, and thinking more than a few strange things about him and those blue eyes that would lurk in his dreams. 

* * *

Before Yuuri made his debut as a novice, there were a few last touches to be made. It was still early as they walked the streets together to the hairdresser’s. Mari had told him stories, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

Getting their hair done was an exhaustive, expensive process, and most geisha didn't care to do it more than once a week. Yuuri had grown his out since long before he'd been told about his chance to become a geisha, and it was as long as Mari’s now, plenty long enough for the complex style which an apprentice would wear. 

The traditional style of a new apprentice geisha was the split-peach, which he recalled seeing on Mari some years ago. It was so named because the hair was gathered in such a way that it resembled a peach parted down the middle, a swath of silk peeking out the cleft. On apprentices, this was always red. There was something suggestive about the glimpse of red from inside the peach, but Yuuri didn't quite understand what it was meant to be. 

Still, he allowed the hairdresser to yank his fingers harshly through Yuuri’s hair, suffering as best as he could through the entire painful process of having his hair roughly styled. It was excruciating, but a necessary part of creating the elaborate style which he had dreamed of for years. 

When it was finished, he was exhausted, but Mari marched him back to the okiya with the promise of something exciting to look forward to. 

Upon his return, mother pulled out the entire regalia of an apprentice geisha. Yuuri nearly broke down in tears of joy. Mari laughed. “You're excited now. Wait ‘til you put it on.”

He didn't understand what she meant by that, as he quickly divested of the simple shift he had been wearing before and replaced it with the kimono’s underrobe. With each successive layer, the garments became heavier and heavier.

Wearing kimono was not a simple process to begin with. It could not be put on alone, and a man mother was friends with was paid a wage solely to assist Mari and Minako in dressing each evening, tying the complex knots and cords that would hold things in place, adjusting the padding used to shape a maiko’s elaborate obi. 

Many who wore kimono also used padding throughout the rest of the kimono to ensure that it fit correctly and wasn't too uncomfortable. But geisha were supposed to wear their outfits with confidence and pride, and Minako never needed padding to make her kimono look like an extension of herself. 

Even harder, an apprentice geisha was dressed far more elaborately than their grown counterparts. It was a showy thing, and even showier than their kimonos were the obis which they wore, knotted elaborately at the back as high as the shoulder blades and trailing almost to the ground, nearly as wide as he was himself. This heavy addition, combined with sleeves that fell nearly to the floor, made his first time in a kimono look ungainly and awkward. 

Mari laughed until she cried as Yuuri nearly fell backwards. He had always been so graceful before, hard-earned through years of dance, and it was gone with the last knots of the obi at his back, threatening to send him pitching back to the floor. His knees protested. 

But the heavy brocades of fabric were beautiful, and he finally felt a shred of the beauty he'd dreamed of. This was a kimono for another season, patterned like a waterfall at the knees and gloriously detailed.

Mother spent the first week marching him around the okiya, teaching him to walk in the kimonos with the same grace that Mari and Minako did. The pair, meanwhile, were busy entertaining their guests at various tea shops around Gion. A small part of Yuuri often wondered if they saw the strange pair of foreigners again, the Russian men with hair like fresh fallen snow and eyes like a clear sky. But a louder part was too busy teaching himself to move with a deliberately easy grace. 

There was no time for fun or fanciful thoughts. Not when his dream of beauty was close enough to taste like sweet honey on his tongue. 

The next few days were spent like this, tripping up and down the corridors of the okiya, doddering past the maids who were scrubbing the floors, stumbling on steps, until he became more sure of himself than when he started. 

Sleeping with his new hairstyle was impossible. He could not sleep the way he had before, or else he would ruin the style which had taken hours to complete. There were special pillows and accoutrements to help with this, but even so, he had to return to the hairdresser many times before he started to get used to how things needed to be done now. 

The day, at last, came. The ceremony to bind Yuuri and Mari together as sisters was not entirely unlike a wedding. This was something that would last their entire lives. 

It was the first time his face was made up. It took a long time to complete the process, mother fondly scolding him every time he tried to touch his skin in wonder. In his kimono, his face white and his lips as red as fresh blood, he studied himself in the mirror with elation in his chest. 

He was here. He had done it. He couldn't even recognize himself. The shy, anxious child from the Hasetsu village was gone. Shadows of his old, fearful self clung stubbornly, but the mask was firm. He was beautiful. 

The ceremony took place, and Mari was at last his sister. 

They set out almost immediately after the event, and Mari made all the proper introductions as an older sister would for her junior: to the people running tea houses, to hairdressers, to the craftsmen selling hair pins, even her own customers. Each one would be introduced to Yuuri the way many of them had once been introduced to Mari so long ago. 

That evening, she brought him to three different tea houses, where he bowed and smiled and listened to Mari tell drunken men raunchy stories. Yuuri was in awe. He had expected it to be beauty all the time, but it seemed that his job was as much talking, if not more. They were expected to do everything with a layer of beauty over the surface, a veneer of grace and sensuality. 

Yuuri sat back and watched, glad that he wasn't expected to contribute more than his silence and his attention. He didn't want to make any mistakes that would embarrass himself or Mari. 

At the third tea house, they met with Minako. She smiled proudly at Yuuri. “How does it feel?”

“Different than I expected,” Yuuri said. 

She laughed. “It isn't quite as fabulous as it seems, is it?”

Yuuri smiled. “No. It's better.”

As they left the third tea house together, Minako beckoned Mari to join her. “I've been invited to a party with Nikiforov-san again, you should join me. You know how that man loves your humor. And it would be good to introduce Yuuri as your apprentice. I'm sure he'd make a better impression now that he's official.”

Mari grinned. 

As geisha, they lived curious lives. Their entire livelihood was predicated on the idea of wealthy men wanting to spend time with them. The result of this meant that higher ranking geisha rubbed shoulders with some of the most preeminent men in all of Japan. Aristocrats, politicians, company chairmen, artists, war heroes, and more. And Minako had met them all. 

Yuuri followed in vague interest as they were led into a tea house that seemed familiar to him. It was the same one he had visited a week previous, the Kasagiya, where Yuuri had seen the two silver haired foreigners. They were there now as the three geisha were shuffled into the paper screened room. 

Yuuri froze at the door, suddenly remembering a dream he had after the first time he'd seen the Nikiforovs, specifically the soft blue eyes of the younger. He flushed furiously under his heavy layers of makeup. 

It was a cozy fit. Several geisha were already entertaining, and there were quite a few men inside the room. There were a few open spots around the table. Minako claimed one beside a man Yuuri would later learn was a very important minister of foreign affairs, and one of the reasons that Japan was currently not at war with Russia. Mari settled beside Nikiforov-san with a dry grin, kneeling between the man and his son so effortlessly that the younger of the two blinked, trying to puzzle out when she had arrived. 

“Good evening, Nikiforov-san,” she said, “I hope you don't mind if I sit here.”

“Not at all! Not at all!” The man was as noisy as he'd been the last time Yuuri had seen him, though a bit more drunk on the warmed sake that Mari poured for him. “Always wonderful to have more geisha! And who is this lovely lady?”

“May I introduce my younger sister, Yuuri,” Mari said, gesturing for Yuuri to bow. 

“Wonderful to meet you, Nikiforov-san,” Yuuri said, as he knew he should. 

“Join us! Sit, sit,” the man laughed, gesturing between Mari and Victor. “Your sister is as lovely as you are, Mari.”

“Isn't she, though? Wouldn't you agree?” Mari asked, leaning over to Victor. 

Victor glanced up from his tea cup, which he had been quietly studying, his eyes flicking to Yuuri’s face and widening marginally in surprise. 

Yuuri smiled, glad his makeup hid his blush. “Hello, Nikiforov-san.” He knelt between his sister and Victor. 

Victor glanced away and said something to his father in a language that sounded almost harsh in his ears, although not unkind. His father laughed again. 

“True, it is a bit confusing, isn't it? Ha! Just call my son Victor, he doesn't mind.” 

“Victor-san,” Yuuri said lightly, tasting the name curiously. 

“Yuuri,” Victor said, still staring openly. “You look different,” he said in halting, hesitant Japanese, strongly accented. 

“Is that bad?” Yuuri asked, peering shyly up at Victor. 

“No,” Victor said. “Just… different.”

His heart was fluttering as lightly as a butterfly’s beating wings. He couldn’t describe the feeling except to say that he wanted to be closer to Victor and at the same time hide behind his hair. But hiding was not an option, not when his hair was pulled away from his face and elaborately styled. 

So he settled for pouring Victor a bit more of his tea. Victor reached for a container of plum jelly sitting on the table and stirred a spoonful into his tea. Yuuri’s jaw dropped. 

“W-what are you doing?” he sputtered before he could stop himself. 

Victor laughed. “Tastes good,” he said. “Everyone surprised,” he confided in his rough Japanese, eyeing some of the other geisha who were shuddering in revulsion at the sight. 

“It looks disgusting,” Yuuri said. Mari jabbed him discretely with her elbow. He couldn't even find it in himself to be ashamed. He was too shocked. 

“Try, try,” Victor said eagerly. Yuuri made a face, which made Victor laugh again. “Please?”

Yuuri pretended to consider it for a long moment, but his hammering heart told him he'd do just about anything to see Victor smile again. He was beautiful in a way geisha weren’t, ethereal and natural, his face less like a mask and more like something real and alive. Yuuri was fascinated. 

He grabbed a tea cup and poured himself a measure of tea before stirring in a spoonful of the plum jelly. He took a sip and gagged, making Victor laugh again. It was too sweet, the flavors mixing strangely. 

“That's terrible!” he laughed. “You drink this?”

“Is good,” Victor said, nodding assuredly. A mischievous glitter sparked to life in his eyes. 

Victor’s dad said something, and the smile fell away instantly. Yuuri glanced at him, confused. Victor’s dad laughed, deep and bellowing. “This is the first smile I've seen on his face the last week. The day I can't tease my son is a sorry day, indeed.”

“Not having fun?” Mari teased. 

“Is fine,” Victor said quickly, not looking at her. 

“Vitya misses his ballet and his friends,” his dad scoffed. “He didn't want to come, but even if he follows his mother’s footsteps, he'll need something to do when he's older. I've been showing him the ropes. With any luck, in twenty years, he'll be doing my job.”

“What is ballet?” Yuuri asked. 

Victor’s eyes lit up. 

“Ohohoh, don't get him started,” Nikiforov-san laughed. “Be glad he isn't fluent or he'd talk your ear off!”

“Ballet is dance,” Victor said, much more eagerly than before. Yuuri must have betrayed his interest on his face because Mari laughed at him. 

“I'm sure Yuuri would love a demonstration. She’s the best dancer among the maiko.”

Yuuri flushed. “I’m not the best, by any means.”

“Dance for them, then, Vitya,” Nikiforov-san chuckled. “He wants to dance for the Bolshoi, like his mother,” he added as an aside. Yuuri helped the other geisha push tables aside, clearing out a space. 

“Will this be enough?” a geisha asked. 

Victor shook his head and gestured to a larger portion of the room, indicating how much space he needed. It took some creative rearranging, but at last, they had the space they'd need. 

Victor shed the suit jacket, loosened the tie around his neck, and stood, relaxed, before them. With endless grace, he began to move. 

Yuuri stopped breathing. Where before Victor had merely been a passing fascination, something strange and different and new, now he was an absolute vision of grace and beauty. Every movement was slow and deliberate, and yet lighter than air, every leap and twirl and spin like a fairy dancing through the teahouse room. 

It told a story through movement, fantastical and free. 

They applauded politely when he was finished, but Yuuri couldn't stop staring when it was done. Minako gave him a small shove. “Go, show them what you do.”

Mari assembled a borrowed shamisen and sat at the edge of the cleared space. Yuuri stumbled to the front of the group. 

How did he follow that? The truth was that he didn't. He would never be as beautiful as what he had just seen. The pressure was overwhelming. Mari started to play, but he couldn't move. He was frozen. 

Victor caught his eye, and he smiled. Everything felt like it had melted. Yuuri lifted his fan and stumbled into the first steps. He forced his movements to slow, become subdued and graceful. 

He would show Victor his own dance. He would show Victor the pride of the geisha. He told his own story, letting the music become his guide. His fears of not measuring up, his determination to be the most beautiful geisha in town, it all shaped a tale he told through his movements and the slow flick of his fan. It was a language no one but him understood. 

He finished, noticing Victor’s expression was one of wonder and amazement. 

Victor clapped his hands. “Wow, amazing!” he chirped. 

Nikiforov-san looked amused. As another geisha took to the makeshift stage, beginning a show of her own, Yuuri knelt beside Victor again. 

“Your dance was beautiful, I’ve never seen anything so amazing,” Yuuri said. “You looked like you were flying.”

“Love ballet,” Victor said, clutching his chest for emphasis. Yuuri smiled. He could see himself loving it, as well. 

Victor’s shaky fumblings through the language limited the conversation, but they spoke haltingly about dance and their respective countries. Yuuri had to speak carefully enough for Victor to parse what was being said, and Victor himself was slow speaking, occasionally asking his father for a word or two. But Yuuri was amazed by the things the older boy had to say. 

He hated having to leave, but the hour grew late, and Minako was successful for her ability to never overstay her welcome. When she stood to leave, Mari knew it was her cue to bow out as well, and Yuuri had no choice but to follow his sister out the door, saying lingering goodbyes to Victor. 

He sighed as they left, mournfully casting his eyes back. 

Mari laughed at him. “Yuuri, you look like a lovesick girl mooning after her first crush.” She must have thought Yuuri would have been embarrassed by this, but Yuuri wasn't entirely oblivious. He sighed again, not rising to the joke.

“He's beautiful,” Yuuri mumbled. “He dances like a dream.”

Mari studied him with a confused look on her face, glancing sideways at Minako. Minako shrugged. 

That night, he had a starkly vivid dream he couldn't remember in the morning, except for the image of pale blue eyes that lingered long into wakefulness. He had to clean up a mess he found between his thighs, sticky and white. His hair was ruined from his sleep, and he had to suffer through yet another trip to the hairdresser to fix it. 

He saw Victor only once more, two days later. It was through sheer luck that he passed by the wolfish Nikiforov-san, Victor trailing a few paces behind. 

Yuuri was still attending classes, and a kabuki theater nearby was planning on putting on a big show that would offer several important positions for maiko to dance, so Yuuri was out doing more rehearsals for most of the morning. 

His eyes went wide as he saw them overseeing the loading of suitcases into an automobile. The thing was a work of shiny metal and rubber tires, and Yuuri hadn't seen many of them before except from the wealthiest of guests. Victor’s inattentive gaze was sliding past, settling on Yuuri for a lingering moment before snapping to attention as soon as he recognized the geisha he was looking at. 

“Yuuri,” he said, a grin spreading over his face. Nikiforov-san glanced over. 

“Well would you look at that, it's the cute little mouse from the tea shop,” the man laughed. Yuuri had never seen anyone so jovial, sober or otherwise, as Victor’s father. Yuuri stepped close, dipping his head in greeting. 

“Hello, Nikiforov-san, Victor-san,” Yuuri said gracefully. “Are you leaving Gion?” he asked with a note of surprise. 

“Unfortunately,” Nikiforov-san sighed. “Yuuri, could you do me a favor? Tell Minako and Mari they were a pleasure to have around. If I'm ever back in this town, I'll be sure to call on them. And, of course, you as well,” he added with a chuckle. 

“You're too kind,” Yuuri demurred, glancing toward Victor before he could stop himself. 

“Thank you, by the way,” Nikiforov-san continued. “It was good to see my son enjoy himself while he was here.”

Victor beamed. “Fun talking with Yuuri,” he chirped. He jabbered something in Russian that made Nikiforov-san chuckle and respond in kind. Yuuri watched them with a note of sadness clutching at his heart. 

So this was goodbye. 

“Farewell, Yuuri,” both said, climbing into the car. Yuuri was still waving at the span of road long after they drove away. 

* * *

“What's got you so down?” Mari asked, trailing her fingers over the back of his neck to make him flinch.

“M-Mari!” he sputtered. “Nothing is wrong!”

“You’ve been staring at the wall and sighing for a month. Don't tell me it's that Nikiforov boy still,” Mari said. 

Yuuri flushed. “It isn't!” Even though he had dreamed of Victor a few more times since then, it had slowed down a lot, and he was starting to get that annoying stiffness for a lot of other things. Most things didn't even make sense, and it made him glad that, at the very least, all those heavy layers of fabric helped disguise the tenting effect that the stiffness brought. 

No, he was worried about the show. He'd been given a big solo, and he was terrified. Everyone would be watching him. It was one thing to dance for a small, intimate gathering in front of a few customers, or to dance for himself during practice. But to dance onstage? It was too much pressure. 

He was stressed beyond belief, his nerves rattled. He couldn't do this. 

He still remembered how it felt to dance in front of Victor. How it had made his heart hammer to feel Victor watching him. But it wasn't enough. 

* * *

He cried to himself, hiding in the corner where he was out of sight of the maids.

“Please, Yuuri, it isn't so bad,” Mari said. 

“I can never show my face again,” Yuuri sobbed. “I made a complete idiot of myself. No one would want to talk with a geisha like me.”

“One mistake will not ruin your career,” Mari insisted. 

He'd been a fool. He'd butchered his solo onstage. He'd made himself the laughing stock of Gion, the biggest embarrassment of all the maiko in town. It was too late. Everything was ruined. 

“It's too late,” Yuuri cried. 

Yuko grabbed him by the shoulders. She was one of the maiko close to his age, and his closest friend. “It isn't and you know it,” she swore. “You were the youngest soloist in the show. No one is upset with you. And if you give up now, how will you pay your debts?”

All geisha had debts. These were shouldered by the okiya they called home, but until the money was paid back, the geisha were beholden to the okiya. Many geisha were not as fortunate as Yuuri to have a place as supportive as his. You couldn't be independent without paying these debts off, and paying wasn't easy. 

There were the expenses from training, as school was not cheap to attend. There were the costs of makeup and hair upkeep and a thousand other things in that vein. Maintaining a diverse wardrobe wasn't easy either, made more difficult by the high cost of kimono. 

The money earned each night was only a small part of it. A wealthy danna, a benefactor, would help pay for many of these, but only fully established geisha would ever find one. 

And to make matters worse, Yuuri was not just saddled with his own debts. He had found out that his mother had been a geisha as well, and had left a sum of her own debts, far less substantial than his own, but nothing to dismiss either. Not only would he have to pay off his own, he would have to pay for hers as well. 

Yuuri sniffled, feeling lost. He owed so much money. He hadn't even been aware that things would be like this until recently. It wasn't that he regretted his choice, he never would, but it seemed impossible now. His dream of becoming a geisha felt like it was slipping through his fingers. 

Mother rested a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll support you, whatever you decide.”

Yuuri felt like a failure. But he couldn't just give up so easily. Not for his adopted family. Not for the world. He would still be the most beautiful geisha in Gion. 

* * *

Yuuri forgot his crush on Victor with the passage of time, although vestiges of the attraction remained. Mari often cooed about features she found attractive on some of the men she entertained, and to her great surprise, Yuuri found he occasionally agreed, often when they reminded him of something related to how Victor looked.

“Don't you think women are pretty?” she asked, sounding confused. 

Yuuri nodded. “They are very pretty. I want to be prettier, though,” he said with all the fervent conviction of a boy who had just turned 15, and whose voice cracked more than eggshells hitting the floor. 

For the last three months, he'd only been allowed to speak when he was inside the okiya, when the sounds of his squeaks and awkwardness wouldn't ruin his charade and he could practice speaking in a soft falsetto that sounded more feminine than his natural voice. Outside of home, he pretended that an illness had taken his voice on the rare occasions someone spoke to him. 

Usually it wasn't an issue. Maiko weren't expected to be conversationalists yet. They were supposed to sit and watch and study their older sisters. That first night he'd spent with Victor had been unorthodox. But it was still Yuuri’s fondest memory. 

Mari rapped on his forehead, bemused by his comment. “Silly, you know you're still a boy, right?”

“Of course,” Yuuri said. “I don't understand what you mean.”

“But boys like girls,” Mari said. “Didn't Dad explain the eel thing to you?”

Yuuri blushed crimson. The eel talk had been an interesting discussion involving the one-eyed ‘eel’ between his legs, which supposedly liked to seek out the sort of warm home that could only be found between a woman’s legs. Apparently there was something else involving testing it out several times before eventually spitting inside. Yuuri didn't know what it all meant. It was actually very embarrassing and he'd been trying to forget the discussion entirely. 

“He did…”

“Mom says it's different for boys than for girls,” Mari said. She looked at him like he was a puzzle. 

“So what?” Yuuri said, turning away with his arms crossed. “I don't care. It's already different, being a geisha as a boy. Who says I'm not different in other ways, too?”

“So when you look at Yuko, you don't get… ah… excited?” Mari asked delicately. 

Yuuri made a face. “Of course not, she's my friend! Don't be gross, Mari.”

Mari let out a sigh somewhere between exasperation and relief. “Well, at least we don't have to worry about you ruining some maiko’s mizuage…” she muttered. “Minako will be happy about that.”

“Mizuage?” Yuuri asked, voice cracking particularly in the middle. 

Mari nodded absently, before jolting in horror. “Oh, fuck. Mizuage,” she gasped. 

“I don't understand. What’s wrong?”

Mari sat him down, trying desperately not to panic. Quickly, she explained to him. “Well… sometimes, men… their ‘eels’ are… territorial.” 

Yuuri blinked, glancing down at the juncture of his legs. “What?”

“Well, when it finds a cave it likes, sometimes it likes to be the first eel to have been there. And some men will pay lots of money to have the honor of having that. So when a maiko is old enough, she'll go from a novice to a full apprentice geisha after having her mizuage. Basically, she goes through a ceremony to move to the next stage of her apprenticeship. A part of this is allowing a man’s eel the… ah… first try at a cave. It's tradition.”

“So?” Yuuri said. 

“So, it means that a man is going to want to, you know…” she gestures vaguely at him. “Except they all think you're a girl. And they can't find out.”

“Oh.  _ Oh _ ,” Yuuri breathed suddenly, feeling the same rush of horror. “Can't we just… not have the mizuage?”

“You can't be a geisha without it,” Mari sighed, beginning to pace anxiously, muttering to herself. “Oh damn, what was Minako thinking? Puberty we can handle, but this? She wasn't thinking, obviously. Maybe we could say you're not untouched? Oh, but then you won't be able to pay off your debts…”

She continued to mutter to herself. Yuuri watched in confusion. “Do we have to do it now?”

“No,” Mari huffed. “At least we have time.”

* * *

Victor returned that winter.

Yuuri woke that morning to that damned dampness between his legs again, and it left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable at its frequency these days. He cleaned himself with a rag and dressed quickly. 

Downstairs, he was told the news. Just a few hours ago, the okiya received a message that the Nikiforovs were hoping for the company of the three of them at Kasagiya later that day. Mari mentioned it in passing to him, and the moment the words registered, Yuuri froze. 

Victor. 

In the months since the realization that he was expected to have sex at least once before he became a geisha, he'd become vastly more aware of it. 

His voice had finally ceased to crack, and though his natural voice had deepened, he had the higher pitched tone under control fairly well. He wasn't taller than his fellow geisha for the most part, his mother and father both being rather diminutive people. He shaved occasionally, but it wasn't hard to stay on top of it. 

But the thoughts of sex never failed to completely unnerve him. 

Yuko’s mizuage made Yuuri extremely anxious. She wore a new hairstyle afterward, and she carried herself differently. It made him feel like everyone else in the world knew something he didn't. He still wore the same split peach hairstyle and he felt conspicuously old. 

But more than that, he'd become hyper conscious of the fact that his ‘eel’, as Mari was fond of calling it, was obviously misguided. Because it didn't get excited around girls, the way he was supposed to. But it wasn't so much the thought of men, either, to that extent. Random things, maybe, but never for people the way he had been told. 

Maybe it was that all of the men visiting him and requesting his company were lecherous, perverted old men with a fondness for the elaborately dressed young women that made up the maiko’s numbers. Maybe it was something else. 

But the second he thought of Victor, beautiful, ethereal Victor, everything seemed to stop. His heart hammered, and he finally understood. The man had been his sexual awakening, his first infatuation. His first friend outside the geisha world. And now Victor would be back. 

Yuuri was nearly as old now as Victor had been the last time they had met. What would Victor look like now? Would he be as wide as his father, as grizzled and hairy and broad? Or would he be just as airy and beautiful as before, the sort of beautiful that haunted Yuuri’s dreams?

He begged mother for the finest winter kimono they had, and she drew out a lovely work of rich black threaded with tiny pearls like stars or falling snowflakes. Along the bottom edge was an elaborate design of flowers blooming out of the snow. The obi was a rich crimson, patterned to match the snowfall design on the kimono. It was heart-wrenchingly lovely. 

Mari eyed him as he stepped out. “I haven't seen that one before.” 

“Is it too much?” Yuuri fretted. 

Minako shook her head, looking proud. “You look as lovely as Momori did.” Yuuri smiled. “What's the occasion?” she asked. 

Yuuri flushed, grateful that his makeup hid most of it. “Oh… no reason.”

They ventured out into the softly falling snow. His heart was racing with anticipation. Each step seemed so agonizingly slow, and simultaneously too fast. What if the Victor before him didn't hold up to the image Yuuri held in his mind for the last three years? 

He almost turned around then and there and headed back to the okiya. But Mari and Minako stood on either side of him, and he drew confidence from the steady, small steps they took. 

They stepped inside the tea house and were led back to where the Japanese foreign minister was entertaining with a couple of geisha and a group of men, clustered in groups around a large kotatsu table for the cold winter months. Perched to one side, Yuuri recognized the grizzled Nikiforov-san. And at his shoulder, every bit as handsome as before, still as willowy and beautiful, though broader through the shoulders, was Victor. 

Yuuri’s body locked. He couldn't breathe, and the roof of his mouth was suddenly dry. It was better than his hazy memory. 

Victor glanced up at him, almost disinterested, until their eyes locked, and Victor’s expression became one of pure shock. 

“Yuuri?” he said. Well, Yuuri had grown a bit since last they had met. 

Nikiforov-san glanced over with a massive grin. “Ah, ladies, you're here! Please, Minako, I need your help, I'm losing this drinking game terribly!”

“Of course,” Minako laughed, settling beside him. Yuuri took a seat close by, feeling a rush of warmth over his legs like a cozy blanket as he got comfortable. Victor settled adjacent to him while Mari chose a spot near Nikiforov-san. 

“Hi, Victor,” Yuuri said gently. “It's nice to see you again. It's been a while, hasn't it?”

“Three years,” Victor agreed, looking like he couldn't quite believe it. He reached to touch Yuuri’s chin, but hesitated. Yuuri felt his skin tingle, aching to know what Victor’s fingertips felt like over the smooth pallor of his makeup. 

Victor drew away. 

“You look well,” Victor said. “I- wow, Yuuri. You look like you've been doing very well for yourself.”

Yuuri fluttered his eyelashes the way that made drunk men fumble their words. “Your Japanese has improved.”

“I've been practicing when I can,” Victor said, but he was choking on his words. He glanced down at his lap, cheeks coloring. “Have you still been dancing?”

Yuuri nodded. 

Mari grinned from her spot. “Yuuri’s being too modest. She's the best dancer among all the maiko.”

“I'm not,” Yuuri said, demurely lowering his head. “She's exaggerating.”

“Is she? We should see if you're still as talented as you were all those years ago,” Victor hummed, grinning. 

“I shouldn't,” Yuuri said. 

“Please?” Victor said gently. It took some encouragement, but eventually he and the other geisha managed to convince Yuuri to dance, shyly taking to his feet. He'd rather hoped to see Victor dance again, but there was always the chance that he could convince him later. 

He noticed Victor looking over his kimono. He hoped Victor thought it was as beautiful as Yuuri found it. 

When he danced for Victor, he told a new story. One no one else would ever understand, but one that spoke to him all the same. It was a dance of longing, something he felt deep in his heart, something he hadn't been awakened to fully until the moment he saw Victor’s face once more. Desire, hot and feverish, for the only person to ever ignite it within him. 

He finished to appreciative attention, soft applause. Victor’s eyes were heavy on him. Yuuri sat back down quickly, ducking his head. 

“Wow, she’s certainly something,” Nikiforov-san said with a low whistle.  

“Thank you,” Yuuri said. 

“That was beautiful,” Victor said emphatically. “Simply beautiful.”

They talked most of the night, freer and easier than Yuuri could imagine. Victor taught Yuuri a few shaky Russian phrases. Yuuri taught him a few crude words in Japanese that had Minako glaring over her tea and Mari and Victor’s father roaring with laughter. 

Victor showed Yuuri his Swiss watch, a lovely thing of silver and gold and sparking jewels. A birthday gift. Yuuri explained the kotatsu tables, a tradition in the wintertime. Victor laughed and said he didn't even feel the chill, that it was much colder back home, but that it was nice all the same. 

It was fun, more than Yuuri had in years. 

It was a shame when it was briefly interrupted, but there was nothing he could do. “Ah, Yuuri, would you mind showing me the way to the bathroom?” Nikiforov-san asked some time later. Yuuri stood with a nod. 

He led the elder Nikiforov down the halls. “You've really caught Victor’s eye, you know,” the man said airily, staggering in his drunkness, sake loosening his tongue. “Impressive, really. But it's good to see Victor associating with someone other than  _ those people _ .”

Yuuri blinked, confused. “Pardon? I don't think I understand.”

“Ah, probably for the best. I’m just glad to see Victor showing an interest in women.” Yuuri didn't quite see what Victor’s father were getting at. They stopped at the toilet and Nikiforov-san stepped inside to take care of his business. 

Upon his return, he clapped a hand gently on Yuuri’s shoulder, careful not to upset the kimono. “You truly are quite lovely, my dear. Why, my wife would think you were the prettiest thing.”

His wife, Yuuri distantly recalled, was a dancer like Victor. Upon their return, Victor was beaming at Yuuri, smiling so widely that his lips seemed to form the shape of a heart. Yuuri smiled back, Nikiforov-san’s words already slipping from his mind. 

They met several more times over the course of the week, and Victor soon treated Yuuri to the sight of his dancing. It was even better than before, though there was a distinct sorrow in every motion. Something in his movements gave him a curious gravity and weight, something heavy and sad. 

If Yuuri had to describe it, he'd say that Victor looked lost, torn between two opposing decisions. It made his chest ache to see, though it did not diminish its loveliness. 

It was so strange. Yuuri’s life had been spent idealizing the slow, stately elegance of the geisha as the epitome of true beauty. But then there was Victor, lovely as a fresh-bloomed cherry blossom, and here for just as long. 

He'd leave again, Yuuri knew. And this time, Yuuri could feel that it would be different. 

They walked through the moonlight on their last night together, sharing their stories of the time they'd been apart. Victor seemed so distant at times, the smile not reaching his eyes. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Victor asked at length. 

“If you like,” Yuuri said. “I have no one to tell, and it would be safe with me.”

Victor smiled at that, that same sad smile he'd been wearing all night. “I can't tell my father. But I think he knows anyway. Rumors get around, you know.”

Yuuri nodded. He watched Victor curiously. Victor looked up at the stars. 

“I feel more comfortable around you than I feel around anyone. It's so strange.” Victor was delaying. Yuuri gently touched his arm, reassuring him. Victor sighed. “I don't usually care this much for the company of women. Well, I do, but… not in the sense that my father does.”

“I don't understand,” Yuuri said gently. “In what way do you mean?”

Victor chuckled. “It's frowned upon, you see, back home.” He paused for a long moment, placing the words. “To… have such relations with men. It never stopped me, of course. But I think father rather hopes you'll ‘fix’ me.”

“Who says you need fixing?” Yuuri scoffed darkly, hiding the intense blush as he realized what Victor was implying. “I think you're amazing how you are.”

Victor let out a long breath, smiling for real for the first time that night. “You wouldn't believe how wonderful it is to hear you say that.”

Yuuri flushed deeper, glancing away. His heart pounded furiously. “Um, Victor-san,” he said gently. “You said… ah… you had relations with other men?”

“That doesn't bother you, does it?” Victor asked, looking worried again. 

Yuuri shook his head. “No, no, I was just wondering… what is it like? Two men… how does such a thing…?” He gestured vaguely. 

Victor laughed aloud. “I promise, it's possible. It feels quite good, actually, when done right. Ah, but I forget myself. It wouldn’t be polite to discuss this in front of a lady, now, would it?”

Yuuri bit his lips. “Of course,” he said. He maintained his measured pace, trying not to show the disappointment. He wanted to tell Victor the truth, and at the same time, he didn't. 

“You seem down as well. You know I can keep your secrets as well. Only if you feel like it, of course.”

Yuuri considered it for the briefest of moments, listening to the quiet scuffle of their footsteps and the ticking of Victor’s watch. He shook his head. “It's nothing. The theater just wants me to do a solo, but I don't want to.”

“Why not?” Victor asked. “I thought you were the best dancer out of all the maiko?”

“That's a lie,” Yuuri said. “And even if it wasn't… well, I can't dance in front of so many people.” Yuuri quickly explained that the seasonal show was approaching, finishing with the brief story about how he'd embarrassed himself so badly he'd rejected every solo offer since. “I freeze up. I… I lack confidence,” Yuuri admitted. 

“I don't believe that,” Victor said. “Surely you could just go up there and impress them? You don’t freeze up in front of me.”

“That's different. I feel comfortable around you,” Yuuri said. “It's much more frightening on stage.”

Victor grabbed him by the shoulders. He had a serious look on his face. “I think you can do it. I think you’d be amazing.” Yuuri averted his gaze. “You should accept.”

“I made a fool of myself last time. I was an embarrassment to my okiya and to Mari and Minako. I can't- I shouldn't-”

“You can,” Victor said. “You are magnificent. Just pretend it's me watching, alright? Forget everyone else. Think of me watching you, and dance like you have for me.”

Yuuri took a deep breath and smiled. “I… I can try.” He stared deeply into Victor’s eyes, finding himself falling harder than ever. He felt like he couldn't breathe. 

He had seen love before, on rare occasions. His first mother and father, his birth parents, curling up together before bed. His new parents clasping hands and pressing their foreheads together when they met, missing one another deeply, despite their work keeping them apart. 

More often, he'd seen lust. A geisha didn't sleep with her customers the way a prostitute did, but the things she did on her own time were her own prerogative. Victor knew that. Nikiforov-san had said expecting a geisha to have sex with a client would have been like expecting a prima ballerina to sleep with an audience member. 

But despite it being against the rules, he'd seen Mari bring back a man back the okiya once or twice, heard the shallow, breathy gasps as they fumbled in the dark. 

When he looked at Victor, suddenly the thoughts of both were there in his mind. 

Victor enjoyed the company of men in his darkened fumblings. Things seemed a little off center, like it was hard to breathe, like things were different. Victor liked the company of men. But Yuuri wasn't dressed like a man. He was a geisha, beautiful as he had always dreamed, and completely wrong. 

He wanted to cry. 

Victor was leaning closer, their gazes locked. Victor’s touch was so light, tracing over his jawline as lightly as a feather, so faint that Yuuri couldn't even feel it through the thick white makeup he wore over his face. He knew how he must look, his eyes dark and ringed in flashes of alluring red, his lips as bright as blood and inviting like the unfurling petals of a flower.

He felt Victor’s breath skim over his lips, his breath smelling sweet of the plum jelly he mixed into his tea. 

Victor suddenly jerked back, startling Yuuri. Yuuri snapped back to himself, catching his breath in the wake of the moment. “I… sorry,” Victor said hastily. “I- I just… I can’t-”

“No, it's fine,” Yuuri said quickly. “For the best, probably. My mizuage…” he trailed off. 

“Mizuage?” Victor said. “I'm sorry, I don't know that word.”

Yuuri blinked. Of course. Victor wouldn't know. If his father did, it wouldn't be something to mention. Yuuri flushed. “It's the ceremony for a maiko to become a full apprentice. We hold a small ritual, eat dinner to celebrate, and then the man who sponsors us… ah… well, he shows a maiko her… ahem. Her first sexual experience.”

“Oh,” Victor said. 

Yuuri nodded, looking away. “Yes. It's a little embarrassing. I apologize for bringing it up.”

“No, please, don't worry about it,” Victor said hastily. “It's fine.”

Things felt uncomfortable suddenly. The air was thicker and the silence left them both taking uneasy steps in the soft night. Their footsteps crunched quietly in the dusting of snow on the ground. 

Victor was leaving again tomorrow, and who knew for how long? “I'll miss you,” Yuuri said quietly.

“I'll miss you as well,” Victor said simply. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a box. It was slender and long, wrapped in a lovely ribbon. “By the way. Father suggested I get you a gift. I thought you would like this.”

“A gift?” Yuuri said, sounding surprised. He took it in his hands. “You shouldn't have.”

“I wanted to. I was going to give it to you earlier, but I didn't want you opening it in front of the others. I didn't want them to misunderstand.”

Yuuri tugged the ribbon off, lifting the lid. Inside was a beautiful hairpin decorated by a curling white flower and glittering with crystals. Threads of what appeared to be gold were set into the carved wood. It was beautiful. His breath caught. 

“Your name, it means lily, correct?” Victor said. “In Russia, these flowers symbolize beauty. I thought it would be appropriate to give to you. When you talk, you always mention the ways you find the beauty in things. You’re my first real friend, Yuuri, so… I want to share these beautiful things with you.”

“Victor-san, I-” Yuuri gasped, taking it in his fingers. He looked up, breathless. “It's amazing.”

“Please, wear it and think of me,” Victor said. 

Yuuri’s fingers went to his hair. He tugged one of the pins out, leaving an open gap in the decorations. Victor beamed and pinned it in the open space, settling the silk lily amongst the other beautiful pins. 

“I will always think of you,” Yuuri admitted. “Even while you’re gone.”

Victor looked sad. He would be leaving so early tomorrow, before Yuuri would ever wake. This was quite possibly the last they'd ever see of each other. This moment was precious, and Yuuri could feel it. The okiya was right there. Soon they'd part, and it would be over. 

He braced himself, tugging Victor back into the alley just out of the way. In the darkness, their lips met in a feverish kiss. Who had initiated the kiss, Yuuri couldn't tell. But it made his heart race, and they pulled away, staring into each other's eyes and breathing heavily, watching with awe. 

“Victor, I'm not a girl,” Yuuri breathed, dropping his falsetto. It was so alien to speak without pitching his voice. 

“What?” Victor said, confused. His lips were dusted with scarlet from the kiss. 

“I-” Yuuri started, realizing it would take too long to explain. There wasn't much time before he'd be expected inside, before someone got curious about where he was and came looking. 

Yuuri glanced down the alley, making sure no one could see, and he hitched up the side of his kimono. He grabbed Victor’s hand, sliding it under the garment, pressing it to the smooth silk of the underrobe right at the juncture of his legs. He was half hard and aching for the touch, but that wasn't what was important at the moment. “I'm a man,” Yuuri whispered, continuing in his normal voice. “Please, no one can know.”

“Yuuri-” Victor gasped, eyes going wide. The surprise on his face made him look even more beautiful in the starlight. 

Yuuri stretched to his toes and pecked Victor’s lips again. “I wanted to tell you all week,” he said. “I'll never forget you, Victor-san. Goodbye.” He turned so he couldn't see Victor’s reaction. 

He hurried inside, taking great care to avoid being seen by the maids and especially by mother. In the mirror, his makeup was ruined, but his eyes were glittering and bright. He was breathing heavily. 

He touched his fingers to his lips. 

It was such a shame they'd likely never meet again. 

* * *

Inspired by Victor’s words about how a male coupling could be pleasurable if done right, Yuuri grew curious.

Victor’s hand on his sex had been more exhilarating than anything Yuuri had felt in his life. Even if it had simply been to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt his true gender, it had felt so good that he'd dreamed about it for weeks afterward. 

And so, feeling curious and bold while alone in the toilet, he reached between his legs and grasped hold of his cock, holding it in his fingers. For years, he had half pretended it didn't exist, and it hadn’t been an issue. His body didn't long for the touch of a woman the way Toshiya had said it would, and he had assumed himself to be broken. 

Maybe he was like Victor. Maybe his interests were elsewhere. 

With those blue eyes on his mind, he felt a stirring of something pleasurable inside of him, reacting to the touch. He curled his fingers, experimenting with the ways he held himself, finding a slow slide down the length to feel better than just holding himself. There was too much friction to feel good, though, so after a moment's consideration, he slicked his tongue over his hand and tried again, feeling the cool saliva ease the aching need inside him. 

He tested a few things out, and found himself shaking, riding out the pleasure he created for himself. It culminated into a burst of heat, a pooling feeling deep inside him that suddenly released in a milky white rush. 

Suddenly he understood what Mari and Toshiya had meant all those years ago when they'd explained the spitting eel. He understood the messes he would sometimes awaken to. There was a strange white fluid that he studied in his fingers before a wave of revulsion bid him to clean it off. He took a rag and cleaned himself, laying back down in his room in a haze. He felt giddy and light. 

It had been strange, so strange, but good. Definitely something he wanted to try again. 

* * *

When the seasonal show rolled around, Yuuri accepted the solo, much to everyone’s surprise. He kept Victor’s words in mind. He pretended he was dancing just for Victor alone, and while he was still shaky, he found he didn't freeze. He finished, his heart racing, feeling accomplished at last.

Maybe he really could be the finest geisha in Gion after all. 

But where the attention came, it came in waterfalls, and it was too much. The attention was quickly overwhelming. And to his surprise, his presence was requested by a larger number of men than ever before. Not Mari, but him. 

“Why?” he asked Mari. “You're actually a geisha. What do they want from me?”

Mari pursed her lips. “Many geisha would have their mizuage around now. Perhaps earlier. They're circling like vultures.”

“I'll think of something,” Minako said. “We can't let Yuuri go through that. It would ruin him.”

If people found out, he was done. It wouldn't be like Victor. The men who wanted to participate in his mizuage were not interested in the company of a man. They wanted a girl’s first time. And they'd pay through the nose for the pleasure. 

Every night when Yuuri stroked himself off, he wondered if this was the feeling they were chasing. Either way, it had become a bit of an addiction. 

He often felt guilty for thinking of Victor in that sort of way, but only Victor brought those sorts of feelings boiling up within him. Other men didn't bring it on, and women didn't either. Only the thought of Victor’s body in motion, his mind in action, his clever wit and blunt personality, brought Yuuri right to the edge and gave him that final push. 

A year passed, and the seasons continued to turn, each one bringing with it a new wave of suitors hoping to claim Yuuri’s mizuage. It became a commodity item, in a sense, which made matters worse. Suddenly, by withholding it, it had become more desirable. Yuuri lived in fear of the day that his secret would get out. 

Minako retired at last, comfortable in her age that other geisha would follow in her footsteps. She was already much older than most geisha, though she was almost supernaturally young looking, to the point where most of the men she visited were younger than her. There were few who believed it when she told them. 

One day in spring, a letter arrived at the okiya, postmarked from Russia. Yuuri stared at it in bafflement until he realized that there was only one person in the world he knew from Russia who would send him a letter. 

He might have screamed. Mari might have laughed at him. 

He would never tell. 

He ripped into the envelope, pulling out a sheet of paper written in shaky kana and kanji. He read it through twice, hardly able to believe what he was reading. 

_ Dearest Yuuri, _

_ My most beautiful friend, _

_ I am so sorry I never wrote you before today. It was only this morning that my father mentioned he knew the address of your okiya and that you would be able to get correspondence.  _

_ How are you? Did you participate in that show? You have to tell me how it went! I want to hear everything.  _

_ I've been so busy this last year and a half.  _

_ When I'm not working with father, mother lets me tour with her and her fellow Bolshoi dancers. The Bolshoi is a prestigious troupe of ballet dancers. Mother is close friends with the old Prima, Lilia Baranovskaya. In your terms, she would be about the same as Minako is there in Gion. It's a great honor, but all father cares about is his business. I suppose it is important.  _

_ Mother is already older than other dancers, and she doesn't keep up with them. She wishes as much as I do that we could both stay on with the troupe, but father grows more insistent by the day, and he claims my schooling is more important than dance.  _

_ Sometimes I hate him. Then I feel guilty, because he is not a bad father. He just doesn't understand. He's too stubborn, too set in his ways. He refuses to compromise on anything. I have tried. I gave up my old friends, you know, the ones from my secret? _

It took Yuuri a moment to remember what secret he was referring to. Then his cheeks heated up. Victor’s preference for men.

_ I've given up a lot, actually, trying to convince him to let me have this. But he refuses to allow me an inch.  _

_ I guess it's not so bad. Lately I can't get you out of my mind. I dream of you sometimes. I hope that doesn't seem strange to you. Perhaps this is overly forward of me, but I plan to return to Japan someday in the near future. Perhaps we could reunite?  _

_ I think my secret and your secret could use another discussion, if you'd be agreeable. Maybe a longer conversation when we both have the time?  _

Yuuri blushed harder. 

_ Thoughts of you get me through my days. They make the distance easier.  _

_ Hopefully yours,  _

_ Victor Nikiforov  _

Yuuri hunted down a calligraphy set and set to work composing a response. 

They wrote one another throughout the summer, and Yuuri was falling in love. 

* * *

With autumn came Yuuri’s 18th birthday, and the best surprise of Yuuri’s life. Barely had he woken up when Mari was bundling him into a kimono and shoving his sticks of wax, the first layer before he applied the rest of his makeup, into his hand. “Dress faster,” she urged.

“I'm dressing, I'm dressing,” Yuuri growled, smudging the first layer of wax over his skin. He set to work as quickly as he could. “I don't get what this is all about.”

“Just trust me,” Mari said. Yuuri scoffed and finished getting his makeup on. The dresser stood behind him, tying the elaborate cords and ties to hold the obi and kimono in place. 

“Why do I have to be up so early?” Yuuri complained. It was so early. Geisha life suited his natural tendency toward staying up late and sleeping in. 

“Your gift requires you to be awake before noon,” Mari said. “Come on, finish up.”

Yuuri grumbled through his last preparations, finishing with his usual dab of perfume at key locations. He tucked away the perfume for use later. He stepped into the main room and froze. 

“Victor,” he breathed. 

A smile split across Victor’s face. He looked just the same, and yet so different. His long, fine hair had been chopped, cropped close to his nape at the back and slightly longer across one eye, stylish and so very, very different from how it had looked before. 

“Victor-san,” Yuuri whispered. 

Victor opened his arms, and to Mari, Minako, and mother’s great surprise, Yuuri leapt into them, Victor spinning him around and pressing a swift kiss to his reddened lips. The scarlet color came away and stained Victor’s mouth. They both laughed until they couldn't breathe. 

“Oh Yuuri, you're just as beautiful as when I left you,” Victor said. 

“What are you doing here?” Yuuri asked, breathless. “You said you couldn't visit until next year at the earliest.”

“I couldn't stay away,” Victor said. “I asked your sister when your birthday was, and I made certain father let me visit. When I told him I was visiting you, I think he relented.”

“Why me?” Yuuri asked. 

Victor winked. Their secrets, of course. Nikiforov-san thought Yuuri was a woman who would somehow ‘fix’ Victor. Little did he know. Victor’s smile widened. 

“My father likes you. He says you're a very charming young lady.” His eyes flicked to Mari with a measuring look. “Does Mari know?”

“Mari, Minako, dad, and mother,” Yuuri said. “No one else, besides you.”

Minako sharply inhaled. “Wait. Yuuri-”

Victor glanced at her, raising one eyebrow. Mari was speechless, her mouth hanging open. Mother looked fit to burst. 

Victor’s mouth was still stained red from their kiss. Yuuri wanted another. 

“Yuuri, you haven't-” mother started, before breaking off. 

Victor flushed. “No, of course not!” he said quickly. “We haven't done anything together yet. We've just been writing letters.” He bowed quite formally to mother. “Please, I hope I haven't made a bad impression on you. Yuuri is very precious to me. And I've had mizuage explained to me. I would hate to ruin anything you were planning.”

Minako studied him with narrowed eyes. 

He bowed a little deeper. “I know this is highly unorthodox, but think of this like a formal request to be considered for Yuuri’s mizuage.”

Yuuri felt his jaw drop. 

“Yuuri has told you her situation?” Mari said sharply. “And you don't mind?”

“Surely my father has muttered about the rumors while drunk,” Victor said graciously, though his tone had taken on a slightly barbed edge. He was offended. “And even if it wasn't so, I consider Yuuri to be someone very important to me. If money is the problem, I can assure you it isn't. I would pay any price to ensure Yuuri’s happiness.”

“Five thousand yen,” Minako said sharply. Yuuri’s eyes bugged. It was a mind-numbing amount, and much higher than Yuuri could have expected for his mizuage. 

“I would pay six thousand, if it means Yuuri is successful. Father explained to me that if it went to bidding, it could reach as high as seven thousand for someone like Yuuri. People will get competitive and want Yuuri to themselves. But they don't know the truth, and I would like it to stay that way, for Yuuri’s sake.”

“And it doesn't have anything to do with taking Yuuri’s virginity for yourself?” Mari grumbled before Yuuri could stop her. “How generous.”

Victor smiled blandly. He looked pissed. “I suppose being Yuuri’s first would be a nice perk. But that would only be if Yuuri wanted it. Yuuri has been worried about this for years. Wouldn't it be nice to do something about it? He can't be a geisha without his mizuage. He would be ruined. This way, he can have his ceremony, just as he deserves.”

“And you go down in history as the man who took his mizuage,” Minako said. “The others will hate you, you know. The ones who want it, too.”

“Then it's a good thing I don't care what they think,” Victor said. He turned to Yuuri at last. He smiled sweetly. “I'm not going too far, am I? I know we said we’d discuss this first, but-

“Yes,” Yuuri rasped. His voice was rough with shock. He blinked twice and closed his jaw with a snap, the grin sliding over his face. “Yes, oh Victor-san! Yes! But… but six thousand? That's too much-”

“It isn't,” Victor assured him, stepping close. “Never doubt that you are worth it.” 

Mother had been watching all of this with a scrutinizing look. At this, her expression melted into a warm smile. 

“Nikiforov-san,” she said softly. “I think this is a wonderful idea.”

* * *

Yuuri was a bundle of nerves throughout the ceremony. A part of him desperately wanted to feel guilty about Victor paying mother so much money, but the mizuage was important for more reasons than just sex.

The money from the mizuage would go towards the vast debt Yuuri was sitting on from schooling, his mother’s own debts, and many more little pinhole leaks where money seemed to simply flow, things like a steady stream of necessary makeup products, upkeep on kimonos, and Yuuri’s favorite perfume, among other things. It almost entirely absolved him of the money owed. 

It was a desperate relief to know that it was no longer hanging over his head. In addition to being done with his mizuage, he would have that much less money to pay back to the okiya which had granted him this chance. 

Yuuri’s appetite was almost non-existent during the post-ceremony dinner. He kept glancing at Victor, flushing under his makeup. Victor would smile at him. Mari looked grudgingly pleased that things worked out. Mother was beaming. 

“Mizuage is always so exciting, isn't it,” mother cooed. “I remember Mari’s.”

“Mom,” Mari groaned. Yuuri stared pointedly at his food, feeling a little hot. His kimono felt itchy on his skin, the anticipation almost overwhelming. 

After the meal, Yuuri was taken to an inn by his dresser. The man helped Yuuri up to an adjacent room. It was a nice establishment, possibly where Victor was staying while he was here. The grounds were beautiful, deadened by winter but no less lovely. The dresser helped Yuuri out of the elaborate kimono from the ceremony and into one that was very simple. 

It wasn’t exactly plain, but it was much simpler, much less grand, a little more understated and far less complicated for Victor to worry about. That was what mattered. The kimono was soft and blue, patterned with a white design like flowers. The obi was a complimentary shade of lighter blue, left loosely tied and able to be undone with a tug. Yuuri dismissed the dresser with a nod. 

“We’ll be fine,” Yuuri murmured. The man nodded and took the more elaborate kimono away to where it would be packed away once more. Yuuri’s eyes flickered to the hall. Alone, he picked his way to Victor’s room, sliding open the door. It was empty within. 

Yuuri padded inside. A pressure built in his chest, heavy and slowing him to a stop only a few paces from the door. What was he doing here, really?

They had obliquely mentioned this a few times in their letters, but always vaguely, in indistinct terms of concepts and willingness. It had never delved deep into the idea of it. Victor hadn't known if he'd be able to return, and Yuuri had worried too much after his own mizuage.

But now… 

There was another set of doors at the side of the room, no doubt leading to an enclosed dressing area. Victor might have been changing out of his formal clothes as well. Yuuri knelt on the futon left by the maids, taking a deep breath. 

It was funny. Yuuri had fallen for this man years ago. He had buried the feelings, knowing he'd never get to act upon them. And yet, here Victor was. Even more radiant than the day they had met, tall, strong, graceful, exotic, and Yuuri’s best friend in the world. 

Yuko would forgive him for giving Victor the title. She had her eyes on a wealthy danna after she became a full geisha, a man named Nishigori who treated her the way she deserved and made her happier than anyone in the world. Yuko had other people in her world, and so too did Yuuri. 

Victor understood him in a way no one else did. And now Victor was coming toward him, the door sliding open and revealing the man standing in the entrance dressed in a green jinbei. Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat. 

Victor’s eyes went wide at the sight of Yuuri kneeling, waiting for him to arrive. “Yuuri,” he breathed. He smiled. 

“Victor-san,” Yuuri answered. He dropped his falsetto, unsure. 

“Please, just Victor,” he said. Victor smiled, and Yuuri felt a wave of relief. “I love the sound of my name in your accent, Yuuri. Your real voice is like music to me. Like the way you dance.”

“You've already paid, Victor,” Yuuri said, but he was smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. He smoothed a hand over the sheets. “You've got me in your bed already. You've got my heart and my body to do with as you like. What more will flattery get you?”

Victor reached for Yuuri’s face, holding it in his fingers like something precious. “It gets me your beautiful smile.”

Yuuri’s face felt like fire. “V-Victor,” he breathed. He closed his eyes. 

“What would you like?” Victor asked. His thumb moved in a slow circle over Yuuri’s cheek, the powder and wax shifting under his thumb. 

Yuuri’s eyes fluttered open. Victor was looking at him, eyes half closed, lips pulling up at the corners. There was love and joy and something painfully sweet there in his expression. Yuuri could feel it so deeply inside him he thought he'd burst. 

“A kiss?” he said shyly. 

Victor grinned. “Of course." He leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against Yuuri's. It was chaste and gentle, warm, and Yuuri couldn't hold back the smile as Victor laughed into the kiss. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I just... I'm very happy to have you here."

"Me too," Yuuri breathed. He felt like crying. Happy tears, of course. For five years, Yuuri had seen Victor distantly, beautiful and almost untouchable. A child's infatuation. And yet here he was, kneeling in Victor's bed, kissing the man the way he'd fantasized about since the first brush of their lips together two years ago. 

Victor's jinbei slipped down one shoulder. Yuuri's eyes settled on the long, erotic column of Victor's throat, the muscular slope of his shoulder, and his breath hitched. Victor in Japanese clothes was such a dangerous, dangerous thing. Yuuri surged forward, kissing with a little more intensity, unsure of what he was doing but knowing he wanted so much more than this.

Victor answered in kind, pulling Yuuri closer into his arms with a tug that left Yuuri squeaking in surprise. "Aaah, Victor," Yuuri gasped.

"Is this okay?" Victor murmured. 

"Yes, yes," Yuuri said quickly. "I... I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing. Please, take care of me, Victor," Yuuri said. He gazed up through his eyelashes. A beautiful glance of red crossed Victor's cheeks. 

"Yes," Victor breathed. "Yes, I will, Yuuri." Victor placed his hands gently on Yuuri's thighs. "Can I-?"

"You take the lead." Yuuri bowed his head briefly, conceding to Victor's experience. "Please show me how two men 'have such relations' with each other," he teased, grinning up at Victor.

Victor snorted with laughter. "I'll show you everything you want and more, my beautiful Yuuri."

He reached for Yuuri's obi, running his fingers softly over the fabric. It was worshipful, like the slow grace of someone tending to the incense of a shrine, the love in every motion as they showed the depths of their devotion.

Victor tugged at the knot, and it came undone easily, beginning to unwind from Yuuri's middle. It fell to the side. Victor guided him onto his back and opened the front of Yuuri's kimono the way he might a gift, eyes sparkling. 

"Why do you do it?" Victor murmured. He set the ends of the kimono to either side so Yuuri laid in just the underrobe, sprawled back onto the futon. "How have you convinced everyone so utterly?" His lips brushed against Yuuri's neck, close to the line where his makeup began, and Yuuri gasped in surprise. It was a little ticklish, but a long suck at the hollow had him groaning, curling his fingers into the sheets. His head fell back. "Everyone is so convinced you're a woman. How? Why?"

"I wanted to be beautiful," Yuuri murmured. "I wanted to dance. Everything else came second. I didn't want to be a geisha to entertain men. I wanted to beautiful. But men aren't allowed to be beautiful."

Victor stared at him with something painfully sad in his gaze. Something in him steeled, something visible and clear crossing his face as he made some sort of decision Yuuri didn't understand. Victor kissed him again, long and hard, until Yuuri's lungs ached for air. 

"The world is cold and cruel, Yuuri, but there's one thing I'm certain of. You are the most beautiful thing. Geisha or not. I will never allow anyone to steal your beauty or your dreams from you."   
Yuuri didn't get the chance to think about the words before Victor was kissing him desperately again.

Yuuri reached for the ties on Victor's jinbei. He wanted to see more of Victor. He wanted to touch Victor's chest, he wanted to know how it felt to see the man without these clothes in the way, but more than anything, he wanted Victor's touch. 

He had never forgotten how it felt to have Victor's hand against his cock, even for the brief moment he'd placed it there. He had dreamed of this moment. As soon as the ties were undone, Yuuri grabbed one of Victor's hands and placed it between his legs. His breath hitched at the touch. 

"Ah! Victor, please," Yuuri gasped. 

Victor nodded, eyes closed, cheeks red. "So beautiful, my Yuuri," he murmured, sliding his palm a little roughly over the front. Yuuri felt the touch like fire. Victor eased his hands up, undoing the ties on the underrobe. He slowly pulled it open the way he had the kimono, leaving Yuuri bare in front of him, arms still in the sleeves, fabric pooling around him, but shamelessly exposed. 

Yuuri blushed. The makeup on his face must have hid the worst of it, because Victor's eyes slowly traveled appraisingly down Yuuri's body. He was shrugging out of the top of the jinbei. 

"It's so strange," Victor murmured. "You make for such a convincing woman out there, but in here..." He slid his hand up Yuuri's thigh, eyes on Yuuri's cock. It was growing hard even as he watched, Yuuri feeling shameless and aroused. Victor reached for him, and Yuuri whimpered at the touch, gasping in delight as Victor gave him a few soft pumps. "Do you like that?"

"Ye-es," Yuuri moaned. "Please, Victor. Please show me." He wanted to know everything about how men could be intimate. He wanted to know how it felt. He wanted to know why Victor would ignore everything his father asked of him for this, why Yuuri's heart came alive when he thought of Victor, why he found himself so deeply in love. Most of all, he wanted to be good for Victor, make him feel that pleasure he had lost in the name of making his father happy.

Victor shed the pants, setting them aside and settling beside Yuuri with a flask of expensive-looking liquid. He poured a small amount onto his palm and took Yuuri's cock back between his fingers. The usual friction became a delicious warmth, a soft pressure, slick and hot around him, and Yuuri keened helplessly. "Victor, ah, Victor, what's- ah, what's that," he gasped. 

Victor smiled. "A type of scented oil. It makes it a bit easier. Have you never used any yourself?"

"No," Yuuri breathed, moaning as Victor's hand stroked his cock with a gentle twist, changing the way it felt in a wild and new way Yuuri hadn't done to himself before. 

"I'll let you keep this one, then," Victor said. "I have more back home. Have you ever stuck a finger inside yourself?"

Yuuri blinked up at him through the haze of warmth and pleasure. "What? What do you mean?"

Victor moaned a little. "Oh Yuuri, you sweet little thing. They didn't tell you anything, did they?"

"Neither did- ah- you," Yuuri gasped. It felt better than anything he could have imagined. His eyes were rolling back in their sockets. Between his legs, Victor pressed little kisses to his thighs. Yuuri giggled at the ticklish little touches. 

"How do you want to do this, Yuuri? Do you want to be taken, or do you want to take me?" Victor asked. He paused his touches, something Yuuri appreciated because it gave him a moment to catch his breath and think. 

He gazed between his legs. "I don't know..." he murmured. "I only know what geisha are supposed to do. The other maiko said to spread my legs and let the man take the lead."

Victor glared down at him, scoffing darkly. "You can do whatever you like, Yuuri, I promise you."

"I don't want to mess up," Yuuri confessed. He leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Victor's lips, which were smeared with red and looked utterly debauched. "You pick. Show me how to make you feel good, Victor. Teach me everything."

Victor considered it for a long moment. "I suppose... I could take you first, and if you're feeling up to it, you could take me after? We have all night, after all."

Yuuri smiled. "Yes, let's try both." He pulled his arms out of the puddling fabric of the kimono, shuffling it off to the side. "What do I do?"

"Start on your back," Victor said. "Spread your legs apart for me." 

Yuuri complied, unsure how this would work. The air was cool on his bare skin, but his shivering was more an effect of Victor's gaze than the early winter night. Victor poured more of the oil onto his fingers. He placed a hand gently over Yuuri's cock, making Yuuri sigh happily. 

"This might be a little strange at first," Victor warned. "It won't feel good for a little bit. But if you give it a few minutes, I promise it will be amazing." Yuuri nodded to show he understood, crooking his legs a little wider apart, biting his lip. Victor took a deep breath, like he was the one who was nervous and not Yuuri. Victor pressed the tip of his slick finger against Yuuri's asshole. 

Yuuri yelped in surprise and Victor drew back like he'd been shocked. "What? What's wrong?" Victor asked, shaky. 

"N-nothing," Yuuri said. "Just surprised. It's fine. Please, keep going." Victor's hand pumped his cock gently a few times, keeping him hard and dizzied by arousal. 

"If you're sure..." Victor said. His finger felt cool and wet when it pressed against the skin, but Yuuri forced himself to stay still. Victor promised it would feel good. He trusted Victor, though this felt strange and alien to him. Victor pressed against him, the tip sliding inside the muscle, and Yuuri hissed in surprise. Victor slowed immediately. 

Yuuri froze, trying to make sense of this new feeling of a finger slipped inside his back end. It was tight and painful, not pleasurable in the least, barely tolerable at best. Yuuri squirmed, making a face, but Victor was jerking him off again, until the pain became secondary and the delicious pleasure began to creep over him once more.

"Shhhh," Victor murmured. Yuuri hadn't even realized he was making small whimpering noises until Victor soothed them away. The spasming feeling inside him relaxed a little, as the finger gradually felt less intrusive. Victor smiled when Yuuri relaxed around him. "Good, good."

He slid a little more of the finger in, until it was knuckle deep inside. It was less unexpected this time, and though Yuuri threw back his head and shuddered around it, it wasn't the worst thing he could imagine, not when Victor was pressing shushing little kisses to his thighs and stroking his cock throughout the entire thing, keeping him from flagging too much from the pain. 

Victor pulled the finger out and poured a bit more of the oil onto his fingers. "Stay relaxed, just like that," Victor breathed. “You have to take it slow, especially your first time.”

Yuuri closed his eyes. Victor's finger slid back inside, easier this time, slicker than before. 

Yuuri groaned. It didn't hurt now the way it had, and Victor worked it in and out with measured slowness until Yuuri barely felt the slightly bit of discomfort. Victor's middle finger pressed softly against the rim, sliding against the muscle. It slid inside beside the first, tight and bringing with it the same sparks of pain that the first had. Tears sprung to his eyes before he could hold them back. 

"Shh, I'm sorry Yuuri, it will feel good very soon, I promise," Victor said. Yuuri held his breath as Victor slid his fingers deeper inside him, as though reaching deep within him in search of something. Yuuri bit his lip. He wondered when it would feel good, when the pleasure of Victor's hand working over his cock and the promises of more wouldn't the only things getting him through this. 

And then it happened. As Victor curled his fingers deeper inside Yuuri's body, he brushed against something that made Yuuri's eyes go wide, his whole body jerk. 

"Oh," Yuuri gasped. 

Victor beamed, looking victorious. "There we go," he said, reaching in for it again. He found it much faster, thrusting the pads of his fingers against it until Yuuri moaned. Pleasure ripped through him.

"Oh my god, Victor," Yuuri cried out, legs curling inward, fingers grasping for the sheets. It had been a distant edge for most of the ordeal. Combined with the easy stroking of Victor's oiled hands over his cock and the pure liquid bliss that came from the explosive touch against whatever was inside of him, he now found his body beginning to react the way it did when he found himself close to spilling into his hands. "Aah, Victor, close," he gasped.

Victor pulled off his cock, focusing now on working his fingers in and out. He was smiling now, a little smug as Yuuri writhed. His fingers split apart, pulling Yuuri open so cool air rushed inside him. Yuuri sputtered. 

"What did I say?" he laughed. 

"Good, it's good," Yuuri said. His head rocked back, and he canted his hips to give Victor easier access to his body. "Ah, so good."

"A little more," Victor said. Yuuri felt a brief flash of pain as another finger pushed inside, but it was easier, and the pleasurable brushes against that sweet spot inside him had him writhing on the bed, gasping Victor's name. 

Victor surged forward, claiming Yuuri's lips, kissing him as he continued working the fingers in and out. At last, he pulled away. "Are you ready?" Victor breathed.

"I trust you," Yuuri said. He could barely hold his eyes open. He wanted to fall back and be lost to the feelings Victor gave him. "I want you to feel good too."

"Don't you worry about that," Victor huffed, chuckling under his breath. “This is about you tonight.” He reached his hand down between his legs. Yuuri noticed he was stroking his cock with soft, abbreviated tugs, painting his length with the slick oil. 

His eyes went wide. Of course, he had seen a cock before. He had one of his own, and more than one guest had stripped buck naked before him in a drunken fit. But he had never seen someone else's like this, hard and standing proud between Victor's pale thighs, flushed and dripping from the tip. Yuuri sighed happily. He had made Victor like this.

Victor knelt between Yuuri's legs, holding them up by the ankles. Facing each other like this felt startlingly intimate. Yuuri blushed behind his makeup. "So... what comes next?" he asked. He was told the eel liked to explore a woman's cave. And while Victor's touch within him had been fantastic after he'd grown used to it, it didn't change the fact that he wasn't a woman. 

"Just relax, Yuuri," Victor breathed. He smoothed his hands soothingly over Yuuri's thighs, petting them over. "Just like before, give this a moment and it will feel good like before."

Yuuri nodded. Victor moved comfortably over Yuuri, their groins aligned, their cocks laid out side by side. His hardness was settled beside Yuuri's, giving Yuuri the chance to study it. 

Victor was a bit longer than Yuuri, while Yuuri was a bit thicker around. Yuuri ran his fingers curiously over the lengths, biting his lip as Victor's breath caught. Victor's cock, resting beneath a trail of pale hair, wasn't so different from his own. The skin was a little lighter, a little pinker, head flushed a lovely shade Yuuri didn't realize was possible. But it was still a cock, just the same as Yuuri’s. 

Victor’s slicked fingers slid back inside Yuuri, pushing more of the fragrant oil inside. His cock was shimmering in the low light, coated in the same oil he was pushing inside Yuuri. 

He wondered how it didn't click before. This whole thing would be going inside him. His body clenched. He almost called for Victor to stop, to wait, but Victor promised. Victor swore it would be good, the way the fingers had after a moment. Yuuri closed his eyes. 

He felt Victor shift above him, the slickness of his cock dragging past his own, until the head pressed against the place where Victor had worked him open with his fingers. 

The first push was unexpected. Yuuri threw back his head and gasped. It was bigger than Victor’s fingers. Thicker, with a completely different sensation as it pushed inside him. It hurt, more than he expected, and he cried out. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Victor gasped. 

“Fine,” Yuuri gasped. He clutched tight to the sheets. He groaned before he could stop himself. “It's fine.”

“I'm hurting you,” Victor murmured, stilling. Yuuri wriggled. It actually wasn't so bad, after a moment. He had felt worse in his lifetime.  

“I'm  _ fine _ Victor,” Yuuri huffed. Victor’s concern was getting old. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Victor repeated. He winced. His hands came up to cradle Yuuri’s face, endlessly gentle. “I just… I want this to be good for you.”

“And I want you to feel good,” Yuuri said. He tipped his hips, groaning shallowly when a bit more slid inside him. The surprise and pleasure flitted over Victor’s face in equal measure, and the satisfaction helped him bury any flickers of pain that came from the move. “Aahh, Victor, please, show me everything.”

“Yes, Yuuri, yes, I'll show you. Whatever you want,” Victor grunted, sliding the last of his cock inside. At last, he was seated fully inside of Yuuri, and Yuuri was gasping, clutching at Victor’s shoulders. “Breathe, take deep breaths.” His head bowed, their foreheads meeting in the space between. Yuuri rasped for air, squirming, feeling so full of Victor inside him. 

Yuuri opened his eyes, and he found Victor watching him carefully. Those pale blue eyes, exotic and foreign and beautiful, were dark with lust. Yuuri pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Victor…” A smile crept onto Victor’s face, and Yuuri giggled. Victor looked like a mess. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, his lips smeared over with red from Yuuri’s mouth. But the worry on his face melted to joy. “You're beautiful,” Yuuri laughed. 

“And you like beautiful things, don't you?” Victor teased. 

Yuuri hummed. “I think I love them.”

Victor froze. "Y-Yuuri-"

Yuuri pulled Victor down for another kiss, smiling into it. "I mean it. You're more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. Your heart. Your smile. The way you light up when you talk about ballet. I remember the first time I saw you. I thought you were lovelier than anything I'd ever seen in my life. I didn't even know what that feeling was. Awe. Amazement. But then we talked, and I-"

He was cut off by Victor's kiss, Victor dragging his hips in and out in a shallow motion, and Yuuri gasped. It didn't hurt, but it was alien and strange, and it left him breathless. "Yuuri, Yuuri, I love you too," Victor said, eyes falling closed. "With all my heart, to the ends of the earth. My beloved, my beautiful one."

"My makeup is ruined though," Yuuri laughed. It was all over Victor's face. If it wasn't smudged and ruined, the wax out of place, the powder coming loose, his lips no longer red, he would have been shocked. 

"You're always beautiful to me. Not because of the makeup. Because of who you are, Yuuri, zvezdochka, my little star." Yuuri’s heartbeat felt deafening in his ears. His mouth fell open slightly, parting in surprise. But there was no trace of doubt on Victor’s face, not a shred of deceit. His expression was open and innocent and so painfully full of love. 

Yuuri wrapped his arms around Victor's neck, burying his face. He felt so connected. So close to Victor. "I'm so, so glad it's you," he whispered. "There's no one else I ever want to do this with."

"Me neither," Victor said. They kissed again, slow and soft, and Victor drew his hips back again.

There was a strange feeling as Victor's cock slipped almost entirely out of him, an empty sort of sensation even as Victor's hands slid down his hips, up his thighs, rolling the meat of his legs under his fingers. Yuuri groaned into Victor’s mouth, their tongues tangling messily, sloppy kisses meeting in the space between them. 

Victor started to rock back inside, smooth and fluid in the motion of his hips. Yuuri whimpered. What started as almost painful gradually dissolved into a delicious pleasure, wave upon wave of it, crashing over him with the force of rising tidal waves. 

He could feel the swell of Victor’s cock inside of him, filling him, dragging inside him. Victor’s cock nudged against that spot he'd found earlier, and Yuuri keened. 

“Victor, aaaah, oh my god,” Yuuri gasped. 

Victor grinned. Sweat was beading on his skin, air puffing past his lips in shallow grunts. “Good?”

“Good,” Yuuri ground out. His eyes were rolling back as Victor’s hips pitched back and forth, again and again, steady as the ticking of the silver and gold timepiece Victor had set aside, trying to hit that spot inside him again. 

Victor’s hand slid between them, snaking around Yuuri’s cock with a grip just shy of too tight. His slick hand moved with a fervor. Yuuri was dying. This was what Victor did with men that his father so deeply disapproved of. This was the feeling people chased in darkened rooms, in whispered fumblings. Yuuri cried out in delicious pleasure as Victor’s next thrust rocked his entire body across the futon. 

They moved together, lost in bliss, sweet and slow. Victor’s palms slid up Yuuri’s thighs. He was kneading the skin under his fingers, rolling, feeling the expanse of Yuuri beneath him like he couldn't believe Yuuri was here. “Yuuri, Yuuri,” Victor grunted with each thrust. 

The feeling built, hot as fire pooling in his stomach. “I'm close,” Yuuri cried out. Victor hitched Yuuri’s hips up and the new angle had him driving deep into Yuuri, the head of his cock stimulating that spot inside him that drove him crazy. Yuuri's head fell back as it rolled through him, that familiar feeling of release building up inside him. Except nothing about this felt the same as it did before. 

Unlike when he was alone, the object of his fascination was here in front of him, showing Yuuri things beyond his wildest imaginations. He could see Victor’s face contorting above him, beautiful even when screwed up in a mix of passion and exertion. Sweat beaded on his skin, dewdrops on white petaled flowers, the first rush of warmth after the winter’s snows. Yuuri cried out Victor's name. 

He came first, overwhelmed by the sensations rivaling for his attention. Victor's hand around his cock kept rhythm with his thrusts, stroking him down every time his cock filled Yuuri, his eyes switching between Yuuri’s face as it twisted in pleasure and Yuuri’s cock as it spilled in his fist. 

But Victor wasn't so far behind. Something in his concentration seemed to shatter. His thrusts became more erratic, faster, more desperate, seeking a deeper need, his breath huffing in rapid pants through his parted lips. 

“Yuuri,” Victor gasped. He held Yuuri close, just as a spill of something flooded inside of his body. The shaky, shuddering orgasm had them clutching each other until both were spent. 

Victor tipped his hips back. His cock slipped out, and Yuuri groaned under his breath. It felt messy and empty. His toes curled at the feeling. A slow trickle ran down his skin, cold in the still air of the quiet room. 

Victor collapsed on top of him. Yuuri wheezed and pushed him off, laughing as Victor smothered his neck with kisses. Victor smiled at him. His face and chest were a mess, streaked with messy white and red from Yuuri’s makeup transferring, streaking with sweat. Yuuri grabbed one of the towels beside the bed and started to clean it off Victor’s forehead with a smile. 

“You're a mess,” he hummed, breathless. 

Victor laughed and grabbed another towel, touching it to Yuuri’s cheeks. “May I?” he asked. 

Yuuri hesitated. He closed his eyes, but the answer seemed clear. “Yes,” he whispered at last. 

They slowly cleaned up the pigments and powders, working until Victor's cheeks were pinked from scrubbing and Yuuri’s face felt raw. He laid back in the futon, still feeling the cum on his stomach and the slow trickle running out of his hole. He touched his fingers to his entrance, studying the fluid with absent curiosity. 

Victor’s release inside of him, just like if he was a woman. He smiled a little. He didn't need to be a woman to satisfy Victor, and yet he was still the only woman to ever seduce the man. What did that say? What did it mean? Yuuri was too blissed out and exhausted to care. 

Victor loved him, and that was all that mattered.

Victor reached over with the towel and cleaned Yuuri’s fingers off. He patted Yuuri’s stomach and backside with a measured efficiency, gentle but thorough as he mopped up the white fluid. Yuuri’s eyes followed him sleepily. “Are towels for clean up?” he asked. 

Victor flushed sheepishly. “Ah, well, I hear women bleed their first time, so they must have left the towels to lay beneath you. Men can bleed too, if they aren't prepared right, but I wanted to avoid that. I didn't want this to be painful for you.”

“Will it be suspicious if I haven't bled?” Yuuri said, frowning. 

Victor held the towels up. They were ruined by rouge and scarlet makeup, splashed across in sprays of brilliant red. “I doubt anyone will think much of it.” 

Yuuri stretched like a cat and curled up on his side. He tried to be mindful of his hair, but it was already beyond repair. He'd have to have it redone tomorrow regardless. He smiled up at Victor, watching as Victor finished tidying things up, ending by wiping his flaccid length off with the last clean corner of the towel. 

Victor smiled back. 

Yuuri opened his arms and Victor curled up beside him.“You look different without the makeup,” Victor murmured. 

“Less beautiful,” Yuuri replied. His makeup was the culmination of years of aesthetics and artistic tradition. It was beauty incarnate, second only to Victor. 

Victor shook his head. “More beautiful. More real.” He reached up and cupped Yuuri’s cheek. His thumb made a soft pass over Yuuri’s skin. It was different without the makeup. Years of feeling everything through the layers of wax and powder and paint meant that the slightest touch felt electric and alive. Victor’s soft breath on his nose was like a summer breeze. 

“You aren't sore, are you?” Victor paused the slow strokes of his thumb. 

Yuuri curled closer. “A little,” he admitted. He could feel a twinge building in his spine, a slight ache in his lower body, and the emptiness that came from having Victor pull out. But Victor’s skin against his was all he ever wanted. “I'm alright. Was I- was it good for you?” 

“Amazing,” Victor purred. He started to leave trails of kisses along Yuuri’s collar bone, neck, his jawline, dotting them over Yuuri’s cheeks until he was giggling, until they were both devolving into laughter in each other's arms. Their legs tangled, their arms wrapped around each other. Yuuri never wanted to let go. 

The feel of Victor’s body against him was like a waking dream, not one of the innocent ones, but the filthy ones that left a mess between his thighs in the morning. He could feel the warmth creeping back again, the pooling of heat between his legs. He could feel himself stiffening against Victor’s thigh.

“Wow, already?” Victor laughed. 

Yuuri mumbled something incoherent into Victor’s hair. It smelled like soap and Victor, and Yuuri wanted to ingrain it in his memory forever. 

“Would… would you like to switch?” Victor asked hesitantly. He seemed so nervous. 

“Would you like to?” Yuuri asked. “I… I don't know if I'll be any good.”

Victor smothered him in kisses. “Yuuri, Yuuri, you'll be amazing I promise. Please don't doubt yourself.”

“Then why are you nervous?” Yuuri asked. Victor bit his lip. “Come on, Victor. I've been honest with you.” He stared pleadingly at his beloved, his beautiful Victor. 

Victor flushed. “I didn't want to be selfish. I wanted this to be about you for your first time, not about what I wanted.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said quietly. His cheeks burned. Victor wanted to be taken. “ _ Oh. _ Victor, don't you dare think you're selfish.” Yuuri pushed Victor onto his back, pressing kisses onto his mouth until Victor conceded with a groan. Victor’s leg slid between Yuuri’s, brushing against the hard cock that was standing proud there. Yuuri grinned, feeling a little mischievous. “And anyway. I told you. I want you to show me everything.”

Victor smiled. It was like the sun, like a clear day, brilliant and bright and beautiful. “Well. Alright then,” he said. A bit of smugness crept into his tone. “I suppose I would be the best person to teach you. Grab the oil.”

Yuuri reached for the flask of oil. It was nearly full, barely used, likely purchased locally. It looked like something used for massages. He unstoppered it and a wave of some sweet aroma drifted up. “Okay,” he said. 

Victor rose onto his knees. “This will make it a little easier for you,” he explained. He laid a towel beneath himself and knelt, bowing down with his ass in the air. Yuuri swallowed, feeling his throat tighten at the sight. “Oil your fingers, and go one at a time.” 

“Just like you did for me,” Yuuri agreed. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long, slow breath to steady himself. It was just like dancing. As long as he focused on Victor, how could he screw this up too badly? 

He tipped the flask. The oil spilled over his fingers, cool and slick. He rested a hand on Victor’s hip. The curve of Victor’s ass was distracting, catching Yuuri’s eye. The globes were taut and muscular, and between them, twitching a little in the cool air, was a little puckered hole, pink and waiting. 

Yuuri spread the cheeks a little more apart. Victor’s breath hitched. He glanced at Victor’s face and found Victor with his cheek to the futon, eyes fixed on Yuuri, more than a little glazed with lust. Yuuri pressed the slicked tip of his index finger lightly against the hole, cautious. Victor groaned. 

“My, Yuuri, such a tease,” he joked. 

Yuuri huffed a little chuckle. It settled his nerves. “Just… push?” 

“Gently,” Victor said. Yuuri nodded. He put just a little bit of pressure, watching closely how the entrance split open around his fingertip, how his finger disappeared inside one knuckle at a time. Victor huffed, and Yuuri froze. 

“Too fast?” he asked. 

“A little,” Victor gasped. His fingers were clenched in the sheets, knuckles white. “It's been... a while for me.”

Yuuri nodded and held his finger still. Victor’s body seemed to spasm around him, twitching irregularly in little clenching motions. Victor’s breath steadied. He nodded at Yuuri. 

Yuuri took it as a sign to continue. Victor let out a soft, “haaaaah,” when Yuuri began to slide his finger the last inch, until it was inside of Victor as deep as the base knuckle joint, his other fingers splayed across Victor’s skin. He felt Victor squeezing around him. Victor’s eyes fluttered. “Yuuri,” he breathed. 

“Okay?” Yuuri asked weakly. He smoothed his free hand over Victor’s thigh, sliding it up to gently cup at the muscular plane of his ass. He frowned. “You aren't- ah…”

“Hard?” Victor said. He chuckled quietly. “I don't recover quite as quickly as you seem to. Don't worry.” Yuuri cast another worried look at Victor’s flaccid cock where it hung between his legs. “I promise, give me a few minutes. I'll be ready to go soon enough. I think I'm ready for another finger, by the way,” Victor said, smiling impishly up. He wagged his hips. 

Yuuri let out a little breath of relief. “Right, of course,” he said. He checked to make sure his fingers were glossy with oil before continuing. 

It was a slow process, made slower by Yuuri’s reluctance to take it too fast. Victor had tried to be mindful of the pain, and so would Yuuri. 

But very quickly, Yuuri wondered if it was necessary. Within only a minute or so of Yuuri slipping the second finger inside of Victor, Victor was already pitching back his hips, squirming and panting. 

“Yuuri,” he gasped. “Yuuri, Yuuri, please, spread your fingers apart.” He lifted one hand and quickly demonstrated. Yuuri tried it, and Victor’s forehead hit the bed, a low moan escaping him. His fingers twitched on the bed. “Ahh, yesss,” he groaned. 

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He flexed his fingers again, and Victor writhed, voice pitching up. “Oh fuck, Yuuri, just like that.” 

Yuuri watched in vague fascination as the flush on Victor’s cheeks spread across his face, down his neck. The sounds Victor made were intoxicating. Every new shaky, shuddering breath Victor took seemed to sink inside Yuuri like a tangible thing, curling in his stomach. He could see his half-hard cock filling out again, stiffening against his thigh, and Yuuri glanced to Victor to see Victor beginning to stir in interest as well. 

Yuuri fumbled one-handed with the oil, managing to pour a small measure onto his palm without spilling it all over himself, and he set it aside, rolling the slickness between his fingers until both hands were coated. He reached around and started to stroke his hands down Victor’s length, watching as Victor jerked in surprise. 

He tried to copy the slow strokes that Victor had given him, the way it had felt so different to have someone else’s hand on him, but it felt fumbling and awkward all the same. “Ahh, Yuuri,” Victor choked. He grabbed Yuuri’s hand and guided it, stroking himself with Yuuri’s hand curled inside his own, showing Yuuri how to pleasure another. “Just like that, my Yuuri, my sweet Yuuri, so good.”

The praise went to his head, and Yuuri let out a small groan before he could stop it, his cock twitching at the words. He slid his fingers deeper into Victor, mimicking the way Victor had sought out that spot inside him. It felt weird, and Yuuri started to doubt himself, even if Victor was having a very visible reaction to the stimulation. 

It felt almost useless, in a sense. Victor was enjoying it. That much was clear. But he wasn't overwhelmed, not the way that Yuuri had felt, and Yuuri wanted Victor in that mindless, blissed out state that Yuuri had reached earlier. 

His fingers chanced over a small bump and Victor cried out, tossing his head back. “Yuuri! Ahh, right there, ah, ye- yess,” he gasped. Yuuri felt Victor shudder around his fingers. Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat.

“Oh,” he murmured. “It worked.”

“Yuuri, aaah, так хорошо.” Victor slipped into Russian without a thought. He gasped. “Yuuuri,” he managed. “Please.  _ Again _ .”

Buoyed by Victor’s responsiveness, Yuuri hunted down that spot inside him again. Victor’s back arched, catlike, and he thrust into Yuuri’s fist with a feverish desperation. Yuuri bit his lower lip. It was so erotic to see, the sweat running down Victor’s spine, beading on his neck. The whole column of his throat was creeping over with a blush. 

“You're so beautiful,” Yuuri gasped. He squirmed on the bed, feeling aroused by the sight. He pushed a third finger into Victor and Victor barely reacted, except to murmur to himself in soft, husky tones. His cock was swelling in Yuuri’s fingers, growing from the soft, flaccid thing it had been before and thickening, lengthening at a touch. 

“Yuuri, Yuuri, that's amazing.” Victor was breathing heavily. Yuuri spread his fingers apart again, thrusting them in deep and drawing them almost entirely out. He poured more oil on his fingers and pushed it all into the twitching hole, feeling the friction grow, and wanting to bring back that smooth, tight slide over his fingers. 

“Is this okay?” Yuuri asked. 

“Yes,” Victor gasped. “Ah, please, Yuuri, in me. I want to feel you. Want- ahh- feel-” His Japanese was fracturing. His focus was slipping. Yuuri sucked in a breath, spellbound as Victor squirmed. He snapped to attention. He pulled his hands off Victor completely. Victor went boneless on the sheets, tipping back his head to look at Yuuri blearily. Yuuri’s breath caught. 

Victor’s pupils were blown, his cheeks beautiful and pink, flushed to the tip of his nose, his pale hair messy and sticking to his skin. His lips were parted, little sighs escaping. Yuuri quickly poured a little more oil onto his fingers and set the vial aside, working the oil quickly over his erection. 

“Ah, Victor, you're so beautiful,” Yuuri gasped. Victor bent over like this was erotic, so lovely to see, bowed and bent, his knees pressed into the sheets, ankles turned out and his hips twisted to point his ass upward. One arm was curled in loose around him, the other was reaching, clawing at the sheets, holding them tight between his fingers. Victor’s eyes fluttered. 

“Yuuri,” he breathed. 

Yuuri looked between his gleaming cock, slick with oil, and the shining, twitching hole peeking out between Victor’s asscheeks. It was open and waiting, wet and wanting. Yuuri lowered himself over Victor. He embraced him from behind, cock sliding into the cleft of Victor’s ass. Yuuri stifled a little groan as Victor tensed. 

“Can I- Do I just-?” Yuuri panted, feeling his pulse roaring in his ears. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Victor groaned. “Hu-rry.”

Yuuri held the base of his own cock, fingers sliding up the shaft to the head. He pressed the head against the open hole. Victor bit his lip, not out of pain, but in anticipation. Yuuri pushed with his hips. The tip kissed the skin, and with a slight push, Victor’s body gave way easily enough. He opened up like a dream. Yuuri gasped at the sudden heat that enveloped the head of his cock. 

Victor cried out, bliss lacing his tone. “Fuck, aaah, Yuuri!”

Yuuri kissed Victor’s shoulder blades. “Is it… okay?” he painted. 

“Thick, ahh, good, good,” Victor managed. His eyes were closed. “More!”

Victor’s words trailed into incoherent streams of Russian as Yuuri pushed a little deeper. Victor looked blitzed on the feeling, writhing and gasping. 

Yuuri didn't stop until he was fully inside. He sighed. Victor felt like a dream around his cock, hot and slick and tight. He could feel Victor along every inch of him, squeezing him like a lover’s embrace, so sweet and tight around his cock. 

Yuuri dragged his fingertips lightly over the bumps of Victor’s spine, trailing kisses in their wake. He felt so connected to Victor. It was like they were one, a mess of tangled limbs and breathless gasps and soft exhalations of the other’s name. 

Yuuri held himself still, content to watch Victor with a little smile on his lips. Had he looked like this, on the verge of tears, lips shaping quiet prayers and promises? It made his chest ache just to see how alluring Victor was like this underneath him. Had he been so transfixing?

Impossible. “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” Yuuri hummed. 

“Yuuri,” Victor managed, blinking up at him.

Yuuri pulled his hips back, trying to copy the slow slide that had driven him mad when he had been in Victor’s place. They started slow and sweet, and quickly became loud and messy and fast. Victor cried out, pleasure coloring his tone, begging Yuuri for more, harder, faster, guiding Yuuri to fuck him exactly how it would feel best. And all the while Yuuri was going mad with the delicious sounds Victor made and the feel of Victor’s body twitching around him. 

Victor’s grip on Japanese slipped, and his words ran into a slow, steady stream of Russian, punctuated with occasional cries of Yuuri’s name. It only spurred Yuuri on, drove him mad, the heat building inside him. The harder he thrust, the fast he worked his hips, the sweeter Victor’s cries became. 

Yuuri slammed his cock deep into Victor, thriving on the way Victor lost his words completely, until all he could do was clench his fingers in the sheets and moan, fucking himself back onto Yuuri’s cock. 

Victor came first, and the squeezing pressure around him made Yuuri lose all sense of himself, hips stuttering, as he released hard and fast inside Victor. The motions slowed, then stopped as the orgasms faded. 

He didn't want to move at first. He felt sensitive, and every little flutter of Victor’s body around him was right on the edge of too much. It was messy. Victor was breathing heavily. Victor dropped to the bed like his legs had given out. Yuuri’s cock slipped out of him. The white fluid spilled in slow drips out of Victor’s body, puddling on the sheets beneath him. It mixed with Victor’s release on the towel, and now Yuuri understood why he had done it: so the sheets wouldn't be soiled. 

Victor looked half out of it. Yuuri rolled him over and Victor smiled. His eyes fluttered tiredly. 

“Wow, Yuuri,” he rasped, his voice thick and husky. He pulled Yuuri down for a long, sleepy kiss. A strange lethargy was creeping over Yuuri. He felt exhausted, more tired than if he'd just come off a long dance practice. 

“You're the mess now,” Yuuri joked, taking the last towel and cleaning the smears of cum off of Victor’s body. Victor laid back, plaint and poseable, letting Yuuri spread his legs and catch a bit of the dripping cum escaping his body. When Yuuri was done, he tossed the towel beside the other. He grabbed the soiled one from beneath Victor and added it to the pile. 

Satisfied that they were clean enough, Yuuri laid down beside Victor, curling up inside his arms. It didn't take long at all to fall asleep.

* * *

When they awoke the next morning, Victor was half laying on Yuuri, his head resting on Yuuri’s chest. Their arms were around each other. Yuuri stirred, and Victor glanced up, a smile on his face.

“Good morning,” Victor said lightly. Yuuri brought his hands down to stroke Victor’s hair. The strands were soft under his fingers, silvery as starlight. He curled his fingers into the shorter hairs at the base of Victor’s neck. Victor’s eyes closed. 

“It's so short now,” Yuuri murmured. Victor hummed. “It's a good look for you, but… why? It's such a big change, isn't it?” Yuuri asked. 

“It is… I told my father it was because it was easier to take care of, but we both know why I really did it.” Yuuri watched him quietly, still stroking his neck, waiting with his eyes half open. “He hated it. He did. I thought… maybe if I cut it off, he'd give me a little more leniency in other areas. Let me dance with the troupe. I could do it. I had the talent and the skill. But…” Victor shook his head, disgusted. “It's too late now. And at least, if I follow in his footsteps, I can see you again.”

“Victor, no,” Yuuri gasped. “Please tell me you haven't given up on dancing.”

Victor smiled sadly. “Not given up, I still do it for fun. But… father would have never allowed me to join the Bolshoi. I realize that now. It was a misguided dream from the beginning.”

“Victor, please, you can't just give up like that, just because he says so!” Yuuri tried to push himself up, but Victor squeezed him tight in his arms, holding him close on the futon. 

“I don't care what he thinks, Yuuri. I didn't give up just because he told me to. But he's right. And if I joined the Bolshoi… it's quite possible I’d never see you again.”

Yuuri fell silent. “No, no, Victor, please tell me you didn't abandon your dream for me-” 

“You're crying,” Victor said, eyes wide. 

“Of course I'm crying you idiot,” Yuuri sobbed, feeling tears track down his cheeks, breath hitching in ugly sobs. “How could you. How could you give up dancing like that, damn him, damn your father for doing this-”

“Yuuri, I did it for you-” Victor said. 

“How do you think it makes me feel,” Yuuri said, glaring through the tears, “knowing that you're miserable at home, following a career you hate, just… just so you can see me once every few years?”

“It makes me feel like I made the right choice,” Victor said, pulling Yuuri tighter into his arms. He smiled, and he was starting to cry too, tears running so prettily down his cheeks, sparkling like broken glass. He was beautiful even when he cried. “That someone somewhere in the world cares about me enough to cry over me, to hold me close and damn my father. For me, that's enough.”

“Damn you too, Victor,” Yuuri sniffled, squeezing him tighter. 

“I love you,” Victor said. 

Yuuri sobbed. “I love you, too,” he managed. Their foreheads met. Victor ran his fingertips gently over Yuuri’s spine, feeling the soft shudders of Yuuri’s back as he slowly calmed once more. 

Yuuri shifted, and he felt a lance of pain ripple up his spine. He gasped. 

Victor just cuddled him closer. “Sorry, Yuuri. Sometimes it hurts afterward. I'm a bit sore too.”

Yuuri sagged into the bed. “I'm still mad at you.”

“That just makes me love you more,” Victor said, smiling fondly. 

* * *

They ate a breakfast that was delivered to Victor’s door. When they had finished, Yuuri fumbled to redress in the underrobe. He shrugged the kimono back on. Victor knotted the obi as best he could, and they both laughed at how wrong it looked.

They stood in the room, unwilling to leave. Yuuri’s dresser was in the other room, waiting with a fresh kimono. Yuuri would need to dress and visit the hairdresser before it got too late. Neither one of them wanted to move. “How long are you going to stay in Japan?” he murmured, holding Victor in his arms. 

“Another two weeks. It might be a while until I can return, though,” Victor said. His hand rested lightly on the small of Yuuri’s back, content to rest there with a reassuring weight and warmth. “Can I ask you to visit the Kasagiya tonight?”

“You know I'll meet you wherever you like,” Yuuri said. Their time was up. For now, anyway. Victor pulled Yuuri’s chin up, and they kissed, languid and slow, one last time. The warmth of his lips was bliss. “I'm going to get dressed.” 

“Can I watch?” Victor asked. 

Yuuri smiled. “If you like.” Yuuri beckoned Victor to the other room, where the dresser awaited with a change of clothes. Yuuri took a clean underrobe into the private room to change, and he stepped out, smiling at Victor. 

The dresser helped Yuuri into a fresh kimono, methodically tying each of the cords and knots and ties that held his maiko obi in place. It was a long process, but Victor was fascinated, watching how it was done with a critical eye. 

Afterward, Yuuri applied his makeup in a smaller mirror than he was used to, starting with the sticks of wax that held the powder in place. He graduated to the elaborate whites, subtly shaded with pinks and reds to create the image of a soft flush, highlighting his features where it improved them and minimizing the features that were they hurt.

Yuuri explained it as he went. When he was as acceptable as he could get with his hair a mess, he kissed Victor one last time, smiling at the bloom of scarlet on his mouth like an unfurling flower. 

At the hairdresser, he was given a new hairstyle, one that suited a maiko after her mizuage. He held his head a little higher, his back a little straighter. He wore Victor’s lily pin in a place of prominence in his hair. 

That night, he met up with Victor once more in Kasagiya. The cold winter’s chill had chased many patrons to the warmth of its kotatsu tables. Yuuri and Mari found Victor drinking with Minako and a few others in one of the rooms, and he settled beside him with a private little smile and a warmth along his skin where their arms touched, though Victor was back in his western styled business suit and Yuuri was in his kimono, their sleeves standing between them being as close as they'd been the previous night. 

They talked about anything and everything under the moon. Victor taught him a few Russian words, and left him a dictionary he had used when he was first trying to learn japanese. Yuuri told stories. They played drinking games and Yuuri felt his confidence soar and his inhibitions drop. 

Afterward, Yuuri dragged Victor back to the okiya, hiding him in the same place he'd seen Mari attempt to hide her late night fumblings. Victor bent him back over one of the tables, hitched the hem of the kimono up, and drove his cock hard and fast between Yuuri’s thighs, slicked with the oil Yuuri had brought home with him. 

Yuuri squeezed his legs together tight enough to give Victor a delicious place to slip his cock, somewhere warm and soft and thick. Victor spilled between his legs, leaving a white mess over Yuuri’s thighs. His fingers around Yuuri’s cock brought Yuuri off embarrassingly quickly after that. 

“Your thighs are so lovely,” Victor cooed. “So thick and plush.” He pressed strings of kisses to the nape of Yuuri’s neck, just below the line where the makeup began. “I love how you feel, Yuuri.”

“I wish you could stay,” Yuuri breathed. “I wish I could sleep beside you again.” It would ruin his hair and would mean another trip to the hairdresser, having his scalp yanked and jerked in a sort of torture. It would be worth it. 

“I would love that,” Victor said. “Maybe you could spend the night in my room?” 

Yuuri smiled impishly. “Hmm. I just might.”

* * *

It was cold as Yuuri walked through the streets of Gion. Work as a geisha didn't stop because of Victor. Given the choice, Yuuri would have spent every waking minute at Victor’s side. But that was impossible. He was getting closer every day to paying his debt off and being a free geisha, and he had responsibilities that would ruin his name if he ignored them.  

He had other guests than Victor, people who requested him and Mari, and he was still Mari’s maiko. It was his role to follow Mari from teahouse to teahouse, and she had guests of her own. Yuuri was on edge the entire night, waiting to see Victor again. 

Yuuri arrived at the Kasagiya to find Victor in a private room. Mari and he parted ways at the door. He dusted the snow from his shoulders, shivering a bit as he did. It had been snowing more than usual this season, and the winter chill was bone deep. 

Victor was sipping at his tea, a contented little smile on his face when he saw Yuuri slide the door open. Yuuri knew without having to ask that Victor had mixed some of that sweet plum jelly on the table into his tea. 

Yuuri slid into the kotatsu table with a shiver, sidling up against Victor’s side. 

Victor smiled warmly. “You're like ice, Yuuri. Is it really so cold out there?” Yuuri clung close to his side. 

“Freezing. I don't know if I’ll ever warm back up,” he said, smiling teasingly at Victor. “It's a good thing we have this nice warm kotatsu,” Yuuri added. He pressed his icy fingers to Victor’s hand, showing how cold he'd gotten outside on the walk over. 

“You're a dangerous creature, Yuuri,” Victor said. 

Yuuri ran his fingers over the table. It was a smaller one than many of the tables in Kasagiya. Cozier, a little more intimate, designed for no more than 4 people to sit around at the most, one for each side. Sharing one end with Victor required them to be quite close. 

But, just like the others, it had the same traditional setup. A recess in the floor, perhaps 40 cm tall, was sunk below the rest of the tatami flooring, forming a place to stick their feet. A brazier inside warmed the underside, projecting heat. The cut of Yuuri’s kimono favored this method of keeping warm. Heated air rose from the open hem at his feet, along his body, warming him all the way to his neck. 

The kotatsu’s warmth chased away the chill from his bones. But Victor’s arm around his waist warmed his very soul. 

Yuuri rested his head on Victor’s shoulder. He felt the pangs of nervousness. But with Victor, he felt so alive, safe, secure in his desires. “So Victor,” he murmured. “Would you be interested in helping me slip away from Mari tonight?”

“You’re insatiable, I swear,” Victor laughed. Lighthearted teasing. 

Yuuri fluttered his lashes. “Now that I've had a taste of what I've been missing out on, I think I want to make up for lost time. Is that so wrong? I'm curious. And there's so many things you know that I still don't,” Yuuri said. “Every time we meet, you've got something new to share. And I want to make you feel good, Victor.”

Yuuri’s hand snaked over Victor’s thigh, settling with his fingers resting lightly between the legs. The suit pants were just on the right side of tight. Yuuri felt Victor tighten in his trousers and Yuuri felt a little flush cross his cheeks. No chance to second guess himself now. 

He pecked Victor’s lips and smiled. “So, anything new you'd like to share?”

Victor groaned. “Yuuri, you’re going to kill me.” He shivered visibly when Yuuri’s fingers skittered between the tucked shirt and the waistband of his pants, settling against his skin. “Your fingers are like ice.” Victor pulled them out, kissing the knuckles and holding them in his own hands to warm them. Victor sighed. “Well, you little minx, I've got something we haven't tried yet. Something I know you'll like.”

“Oh?” Yuuri said. 

Victor set Yuuri’s hands on the edge of the recess where the warmth rose up from below. Victor grinned. “Just sit back and focus on warming up.”

Confused, Yuuri watched as Victor slid down beneath the table onto his hands and knees. It was cramped, and he barely fit, folded up on himself to squeeze under the table. “Wait, what are you-”

Hands settled on his calves. Victor rested his head to the side of Yuuri’s knee, chin sitting on the bridge made by the kimono stretched between his legs. The top of his head hit the table. He grinned up. “Close your eyes and try not to make too much noise,” he said, before he ducked his head down into the opening of Yuuri’s kimono. Yuuri yelped as he felt hair tickle first his ankles, then his calves, past his knee. Victor dragged his hot tongue along Yuuri’s thigh. 

“V-Victor!” he gasped. His fingers clutched at the edge of the recess. Victor grabbed the kimono’s hem and hitched it up a little. 

A flood of warmth bathed his legs. Hot air from the kotatsu settled on his skin like a blanket. The friction of Victor rubbing his cheek against Yuuri’s skin only made him warmer, as Victor slid his hands along Yuuri’s legs, trailing them behind his feathery kisses. 

Yuuri reached down and curled his fingers into Victor’s hair. Victor hissed and broke into quiet laughter. “Yuuri, your fingers are so cold,” he said. Yuuri giggled. 

“So what are you showing me?” Yuuri asked. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the table settle over his bared skin. 

Victor rested his palms on Yuuri’s knees, splaying them apart. A heated draft of air drifted up, blowing past the exposed juncture of his legs, reminding Yuuri of Victor’s breath on his skin and his kisses on his thighs. 

“Just try to stay quiet. We don't want anyone coming in,” Victor said. His head bowed. Yuuri watched him move slowly closer to the crook of his thighs, kissing along the skin. Yuuri sighed. He patted around, searching for the flask of oil he'd hidden in his clothes, 

“We won't need that,” Victor said with a small chuckle. He vanished under the hem of the kimono, kissing his way nearly up to where Yuuri’s thigh met his torso. Yuuri made a questioning noise. “If you're coming over later, we should probably avoid tiring ourselves out here… but you don't have problems with that, do you?” 

Yuuri’s head fell back with a luxurious sigh as Victor’s hands settled on his hips, rolling them in his fingers. Then the steady warmth became a slick flash of heat around the head his cock and Yuuri cried out in shock. Victor held his hips still, his grip loose enough not to bruise, but firm enough to keep Yuuri from jerking. 

Yuuri yanked the kimono up a few inches higher. A rush of cool air hit his thighs. The kotatsu’s warmth slowly traveled over his skin, but not before Yuuri caught an eyeful of Victor’s silvery hand ducked between his legs. 

Victor’s eyes crinkled with an impish smile. His lips, slightly stained from Yuuri’s kiss, were only an inch from Yuuri’s erection, the head a little shiny where Victor had mouthed it. “There are other places to put cocks than just between the legs,” Victor said, tapping the tip with his finger. His pretty blue eyes were sparkling with mischief. Yuuri could have stared into them forever. 

As it was, he stared, nearly speechless. “You mean…?” His eyes darted between the flushed, shiny head of his cock, spit slick and hard, and Victor’s reddened lips. His breathing quickened. “Oh, I didn't-”

“You didn't know?” Victor said. “Or did you not think of it yourself?”

Yuuri shook his head. “I couldn't even imagine. The things you do with men in Russia,” he teased. 

“They do these things everywhere,” Victor purred, sliding his fingers gently over Yuuri’s length, reaching up to cradle Yuuri’s balls in his hand. Yuuri shifted with a little gasp. “Not just Russia. I imagine some men here do these things too. There's so  _ much _ I could show you, Yuuri, so much you can't even imagine, so much you don't know.”

Yuuri cupped his hands around Victor’s cheeks. He lowered his eyes, fluttering his lashes. “Then show me.”

Victor’s expression was electric and alive, bright as a flash of lightning in a stormy night. 

He pulled Yuuri’s kimono back down over his head. It wouldn't do for someone to walk in on them with Yuuri’s cock hanging out. Improper as it was, at least Victor’s head up Yuuri’s kimono still had the plausible deniability that wouldn't reveal Yuuri as male. 

His shoulders bumped awkwardly into Yuuri’s knees, and Yuuri felt the soft brush of Victor’s hair against his bare skin. 

Then Victor’s lips closed around his cock once more. Yuuri jerked, barely stifling his surprised cry at the moist heat that enveloped him. Yuuri clenched his fingers, forcing himself to keep them right on the edge of the recess, warming them with the heat of the brazier below the table. 

He could almost feel the cold trickling out of him, replaced with the slow, steady heat of the coals beneath the table and Victor pressed against him. His head fell back, a soft moan slipping out as Victor took his cock a little deeper into his mouth, threat relaxing around him. 

“Aaah, Victor, it feels, it feels-” Victor gave a little suck and then drew back, dragging his tongue along the underside of the cock. Yuuri gave a soft cry. 

What he wouldn't have given to see Victor’s face as he nuzzled between Yuuri’s thighs, those blue eyes blown with lust. The way Victor’s lips closed around his cock was so different from the way it felt being inside him. 

Yuuri wanted to return the favor. As Victor kissed the tip and swallowed him back down again, Yuuri was trying to pay attention, as best as he could as he felt his orgasm being drawn out of the coiling heat in his gut. He wanted to know the things Victor did. He wanted to remember how it felt when Victor scraped his teeth against Yuuri’s length in the barest brush, just a glancing touch. He wanted to know how it felt to have Victor slide the flat of his tongue over the vein. He wanted Victor to feel that shiver up his spine as breath blew, hot even with the heat of the kotatsu, over his chilled skin. 

He wanted Victor to know all of his love. 

“Close, close, close,” Yuuri sputtered. His hands slid over the top of Victor’s head. He wished he could curl his hands into the soft silver hair. It was just long enough to tangle in his fingers. 

Yuuri came with an aborted cry, biting down on his hand to muffle the sounds. Victor lapped up the milky white release, swallowing it all down. He crawled back up with a smile on his face and a trail of white down his chin. 

Yuuri was panting and flushed, though he doubted Victor could see it through the powder. Victor’s cheeks were a little pinked, flushed either from arousal or the heat. His hair was mussed, his suit rumpled. The front of his suit trousers were tight and tented. 

Yuuri licked his lips and kissed away the release he'd spilled on Victor’s face. It was a bit bitter, a bit unpleasant, but not horrible. 

“It's salty,” he said, a little surprised. 

“Have you never tasted yourself?” Victor asked. 

Yuuri shook his head and grinned. “No. I want to know what you taste like,” he said. 

* * *

Things changed for Yuuri after Victor left again. Some people resented him for giving his mizuage to a foreign man. Many stopped visiting entirely, and the gifts of jewels and expensive trinkets came to a sudden halt. Suddenly Yuuri had a better idea of just how many people only gave him gifts and attention in the name of taking his virginity. It was baffling. It was also a little frightening. 

Some began offering to be his danna when he became a full geisha, and that came with its own selection of gifts from hopefuls as a sign of their affluence, their wealth, the things they could provide for Yuuri. 

The relationship of a danna and a geisha was a mutual agreement where a danna would support a certain lifestyle for a geisha, and in return, the geisha would ‘have such relations’ with him and favor him with her attention at parties and things at his request. 

Yuuri declined all offers. His finances were not so dire that he needed to give himself over so rashly. 

He still wrote to Victor often.  

Victor complained in his letters. His father refused to give an inch. His demands were growing more exacting. He wanted Victor to take a wife, stop his foolish pursuit of ballet, and follow fully in his footsteps. 

If not for Yuuri, Victor opined that his world would be dim and dark, that he'd never know life and love. He'd have devoted his whole being into either path, his dancing or his father’s work, and let everything else pass him by. It would have consumed him. But Yuuri was his light, his treasure, his precious gold, his little star. He made praise fall like summer rain. 

Even so far apart, Yuuri felt like their hearts were tied, their love holding them close despite the distance. They would meet again someday. He could only hope it would be soon. 

* * *

Yuuri often felt lonely. A year had seen him becoming a full geisha, at last graduating from maiko status to join Yuko and Mari. He was busier than ever now that he no longer needed to follow Mari around everywhere. 

He didn't have any more dance lessons, but he still strove to keep his skills sharp. He studied the Russian dictionary studiously. When Victor returned, Yuuri wanted to surprise him with more than a few scattered phrases and swear words. 

Yuuri had more people in his life than just Victor. He had his friends, his family, and a steady stream of people he knew by name who asked for nothing more than his company and his dances. 

But in his heart, he knew that being without Victor cut worse than anything else in the world. 

He was told his dancing grew more beautiful with each passing month, heavy and lonesome and so poignant that those who watched claimed they could not keep dry eyes. But Mari saw the way he stared a little too long at the letters on his dresser. Minako saw the longing in his dances. 

Mother cupped his cheeks in her hands, smiling sadly. She smelled of sweet safflowers. “You miss him,” she said. Not a question. 

Yuuri flushed furiously. “Only a little,” he promised. 

He worried often about Victor. Things in Russia seemed to be getting worse for him, not better. 

Victor’s father refused him even an inch of leeway. He presented a string of women for Victor to take as a wife, and Victor was running out of excuses to avoid picking one. 

But in his letters, one thing was clear. Yuuri was the only one he wanted, the only one he loved. If he could, Victor would have left it all behind and moved to Japan. He fantasized about becoming Yuuri’s danna. They'd dance until they day they died, and they'd fall more in love with each other every day.

But his family would have hunted him down and dragged him home. His father would never let him leave. 

For the spring show, Yuuri was given another solo. He found he couldn't convey the happy mood which it told the story of. It didn't resonate, and even imagining Victor there didn't help. It only made things harder, made his heart hurt worse. 

It tore him apart. Not just screwing up his solo, though that was its own nightmare. It was terrible, the thought of how all he wanted was Victor. 

It was so simple. They were in love. But there was so much standing between them. Victor confessed it would be months more before he'd get the chance to leave again, months before they'd see one another again, before they'd hold each other close. 

Victor’s work wouldn’t let him leave. And all the dreams in the world of Yuuri coming to Victor’s side, entertaining at one of his parties, could never pan out. Victor had asked once already, but there were too many problems. Yuuri would have needed a dresser to pack kimonos for the journey and also to follow along, as Yuuri could not dress himself. He’d need someone to do his hair, as there was no chance the style would last long enough without being ruined. 

They passed a year in this way, dreaming of meeting again, the things they'd do, the places they'd go. Their letters were sorrowful and longing. Life went on, of course. Yuuri entertained to the best of his abilities. But his smile was fake, and his heart wasn't in it. 

Yuuri followed his requests with only half an eye. An endless parade of businessmen, two CEO’s, a famous actor from Tokyo, and a laundry list of others came one after the other. At a certain point, he started simply drafting lists of appointments with times and locations, drifting from tea house to tea house without more than a passing thought. 

In the waters of the rushing river and in the summer skies, Yuuri saw the steady blue of Victor’s smiling eyes. In his dreams, he felt Victor’s touch, so soft upon his skin, so warm. He wanted to sleep and never wake, if only to see Victor’s smile behind his eyelids. 

Appointments at the Kasagiya were even worse. The rooms were haunted with Victor’s laugh. The incense in the halls brought to mind the cologne he wore and the mingling scents of plum jelly and tea. The kotatsu reminded Yuuri of Victor’s lips on his cock, and Yuuri’s on his, how his mouth had left rings of red around it. It made him feel hot under the collar to entertain other men there, a slight fluster that people often noticed, despite his best efforts. 

Every new day simply was, passing him by at a placid pace. It wasn't that the world was darker without Victor there. It was more like Victor brought out the shine in everything, made the city come alive in a way it couldn't alone. 

Yuuri walked the streets with a straight face, mask-like and calm, eyes taking in the city he had known for most of his life. There were days when he could feel echoes of his first time seeing it, well over a decade ago. The memories were hazy and faint, but sometimes a street corner or a certain smell would take him back to that old wonder. 

What would his younger self think, looking at himself now? Yuuri was as beautiful as he had always dreamed. He wore the loveliest kimono, danced so beautifully it made people weep. He was a true geisha. But he felt alone, and reaching his dream had a hollow feeling to it. 

And what of Victor? On the other side of the world, the man was burning himself out in a soul-sucking career he didn't love, fighting just to see Yuuri one more time. Yuuri didn't deserve something like that. 

He stopped at the edge of the river, standing at the center of a footbridge and watching the water rush past. He pulled the lily pin from his hair. 

He was expected at the Kasagiya again tonight. 

The only time Victor's absence truly hurt was when he was there. The two things were tied up so implicitly together in Yuuri’s mind. But Victor had been Yuuri’s fixation for a long time. 

Maybe it would be better just to end this. Victor could chase his dream before it was too late. He could still pursue a career with the Bolshoi. Yuuri was only holding him back. 

And maybe, just maybe, Victor was holding Yuuri back as well. If Victor had been just another guest, just another passing face in an endless sea of people visiting Yuuri, then it would have been so simple. But Yuuri had gotten a taste of more, and he was spoiled for it. 

His love of being a geisha seemed to be waxing. Instead, he could only think of Victor’s beautiful soul. 

He curled his fingers tight around the pin. The tiny crystals bit his skin, the lines of inset gold warmed by his body heat. He bit his lip. 

Twenty five years ago, his mother had been in love, too. Her decision was selfish. She left everyone and everything behind, abandoning them without a word for the love of an onsen man. She'd left behind her debts, her family, her friends, her enemies, and all the beauty and magic the city had to offer. 

This decision had been a long time coming. It was Victor or Gion. 

The pin trembled and slipped from his fingers, hitting the water with a splash. There was only a brief glitter of crystal, an abbreviated flash of white silk, before the pin was lost to the water. 

Yuuri held his head high as he walked to the Kasagiya Tea House. No matter how fractured he felt, he would always hold his head high. It was what Victor deserved. 

A clean break. 

Yuuri bit back the faint quiver in his lip, the little shudder that rippled through him when he entered. When he got home, he'd write the letter that he should have written years ago. 

The maid led him back to one of the more familiar rooms. There was no murmur of laughter behind the door. Confused, Yuuri pushed open the door. 

He froze in the doorway. 

“Nikiforov-san,” Yuuri breathed, shocked. The wolffish man waited within, alone and sipping tea. There was no drunken flush to his cheeks. His eyes were cold and sober. There was no smile on his face. 

“Yuuri,” he said curtly, glancing at Yuuri. His eyes narrowed. He didn't look angry, though he didn't look pleased either. If Yuuri had to pick an emotion, he'd call it satisfaction. Whatever he'd seen, it had just proven him right, for all that it was worth. “You've changed quite a lot since last we met. Why, you've grown into such a beautiful young woman.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri said. He lowered his gaze to the floor, taking a seat beside Victor’s father. Seeing the man without a smile was unnerving. “I wasn't aware you were in town. I could have brought Mari and Minako-”

“Nonsense,” Nikiforov-san said. “If I wanted them, I'd have called. Let's talk.”

“About what?” Yuuri asked. His eyes flicked between the nearly empty tea cup and the door. He was getting angry just sitting beside the man who had stolen Victor’s dreams from him. His hands were shaking. He hastened to refill the cup. 

“I'm sure you have an idea. My son seems to be under the impression that you two have fallen in love. But that's impossible. You and I both know that Vitya doesn't… ahem. Particularly care for the female form.”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes. “I don't know what you mean,” he said. 

Nikiforov-san scoffed quietly. “Don't play me for a fool. You might have others tricked, but seeing you now, I'm certain.”

Yuuri went very still. “Sir, I'm afraid I still don't know what you mean. Playing you for a fool?”

“Your Adam’s apple bobs a little when you speak,” Nikiforov-san said lightly. He tapped his own throat. “It's subtle and hard to see in the makeup. Unless, of course, you're looking for it.”

He knew. Somehow he knew the truth. 

“Sir,” Yuuri said tensely. His fingers clenched on the table. “Victor and I-”

“Are quite happy together, and are joyfully snowing everyone over. Spare me. I know what's going on with you two. It doesn't matter. What does is this: I've isolated him from me now. We haven't spoken in months. He smiles, but it's fake. I know that he isn't happy. Not doing this. You have to understand, Yuuri, I don't have him following my footsteps because I want him miserable.”

“What would you want me to do?” Yuuri asked, feeling a little barbed. It was as he thought. Yuuri was at fault. If he'd only been faster, he could have saved Nikiforov-san the trip. “I don't want him miserable any more than you do. But I can't change what Victor has done.”

“Yes you can,” he said. “I'm not sure how, but you've got Victor wrapped around your finger. And I need your help. Victor must marry. I don't care how you do it. Convince him you hate him. Tell him it's in both of your best interests to end this… this… flirtation. He cannot keep a geisha. He has dreams of being your danna, but we both know he can't support your lifestyle the way another man could. It's time to end this foolish game of his. He needs to grow up and take the reins. He’s good at what he does, but this is a distraction. He has a duty to Russia and to his family to do as I say-”

“No.”

Yuuri said it quietly, but it felt deafening. He felt the rage rising inside him, at first quiet and then slowly building. The more Victor’s dad spoke, the clearer things became. 

“No, he doesn't,” Yuuri hissed. “He doesn't have a duty to you, or to- to anyone! He already gives up everything to make people happy. He wears a damned smile when he's upset. He wants to be understood but instead all you do is make him swallow down who he is. Victor deserves the world. He should be whatever he wants to be. But instead, you're hell-bent on forcing him into what you want of him. You know what? That's not fair!”

“Life isn't fair,” Nikiforov-san snapped. “You think I enjoy Victor being unhappy? I have done everything for Victor, made every effort-”

“Obviously not!” Yuuri snapped. “Or Victor wouldn't be writing me telling me how little you understand the blood, sweat, and tears he's put into making you happy. And yet somehow you are never satisfied with him. You can't just let him be himself. You can't say you've made every effort when you know you haven't.”

“And I suppose you get to be yourself?” Nikiforov-san said coolly. “Yuuri? Maybe you've fooled other people, but I know my son better than that.”

“Then why can't you just accept him?” Yuuri said. “What does it matter what he does on his own time? What does it matter who he loves?”

“Because I don't want him getting hurt!” Victor’s father bellowed. His face had gone red with fury, stark against his white mane. “Russia is not kind to people like Victor. He can hate me all he likes. It's only a matter of time before they drag him kicking and screaming to Siberia. It might not be illegal now, but we'll see how long that lasts. I don't want the last time I see my son to be him getting taken away from me.”

Nikiforov-san was breathing heavily. Yuuri was too, to be fair. They stared each other down. For long minutes, their panting was the only sound in the room. Finally, Yuuri cracked. His shoulders sagged. 

The truth was right there, practically laid bare. It was on the tip of his tongue, a confession to one of the few people in the world who had the power to ruin him completely. 

“I love him,” Yuuri whispered. “If… if it would help him, I would do anything.” He closed his eyes. “Even give Victor up.” 

He bowed his head. Saying the words aloud make them too real. It made tears well in the corners of his eyes. He dropped to his knees. 

“I'm a geisha,” he said quietly. “Geisha don't get to fall in love. It would only interfere with their jobs. But I love Victor. I love him, so much it hurts to think about. So…” He let out a humorless laugh. “Where does that leave me?”

Nikiforov-san tapped his chin. He was thinking about something, eyes unfocused and distant. “That, Yuuri, might just be up to you.”

* * *

It wasn't an easy choice. In fact, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. 

He loved his family. He loved them dearly, and he would never stop loving them. 

His aunt Minako, who still managed to look half her age, her beauty untouched by the ravages of time, and who had taken him by the hand and led him to a new life. His mother and father, who had brought him into their lives without a single question, who had raised him like their own, who had become more family to him than his blood parents. His sister Mari, who was more than just a sibling, but also a friend, a companion, a confidant.

Yuuri said his goodbyes with his eyes full of tears. 

Yuuri wore his hair down and long on his shoulders as he kissed their cheeks. His eyes traveled one last time over the quiet streets of Gion. It had been spring, the day he had come here. The trees had been heavy with cherry blossoms. Today, the branches dripped with the pink flowers, but were also dressed with an unseasonably late dusting of snow. 

He remembered the day he first realized he wanted to beautiful. He had wanted to be captivating. He wanted to draw the eye the way Minako had. 

But there was only one person in this word he cared about now, only one person who needed to be there. As long as Victor was there, telling him how beautiful he was, Yuuri thought he'd be alright. 

Plus, no one said Yuuri could never visit home. 

* * *

The journey was long, and Russia was a strange, strange place, completely unlike anything Yuuri had ever seen before. 

People had often stared back in Japan, as geisha were quite a novelty outside of their districts, but in Russia, this increased tenfold. Even without his hair done up, he still struck a certain image, and he strived to maintain that the entire trip there. 

But the moment he saw the shock on Victor’s face, the open surprise and raw rush of emotion, they began to sprint toward each other, and nothing else mattered. 

Victor spun them around, their lips meeting, their foreheads touching. They couldn't wipe the smiles off their faces. It was enough to hold Victor once more. 

Yuuri’s smile slipped with nerves. His hands trembled. Behind him, he could tell Nikiforov-san was watching it all. 

“Marry me?” Yuuri breathed, forcing the words out in a rush so they ran together. 

Victor stilled. Around his eyes were shadows of sleepless nights. He looked pale, though a bit of a flush was creeping into his cheeks. “What?” Victor murmured. 

“Would… would you marry me?” Yuuri asked. The anxiety built. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe he'd traveled all this way for nothing. “I know it's unorthodox for me to ask you, but-”

“Yes,” Victor gasped. He squeezed Yuuri tight. Just like that, the fear melted. “Yuuri, yes, yes, of course. Yuuri, Yuuri.” He punctuated each instance of Yuuri’s name with another kiss to his nose, his cheeks, his lips. 

Yuuri still wore makeup, but it was more subtle. His lips were still crimson and still stained Victor’s mouth. But there was no heavy layers of powder between them. There was no bulky kimono, only a comfortable yukata. They held each other close, trading slow kisses, content to hold one another. 

Twenty five years ago, his mother had made the selfish decision to leave Gion behind. Yuuri supposed he was selfish too. 

Like mother, like son.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to prove to myself that I could write a nice, normal fic that doesn't involve fantasy elements and I somehow ended up with crossdressing. Why do I do this.


End file.
